Ghost Where'd You Go
by ButtercupBee
Summary: Desperately she searches for any sign of life, any beating of his heart all the while ignoring the vigorous amount of blood that is drowning the cement in a musk. Fem!John Watson; Dark Themes; Will turn into a series.
1. Two Weeks

This is a story I have on AO3, but I thought I'd broaden my horizons…or whatever. Either way, enjoy!

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It's when she receives a call from Sherlock she knows something's wrong, he never calls her, he texts, and only texts. The first day they met he claimed so, and that statement proved to be true after she found she'd never once come to hear his voice on the other line. But he had called, she had left her cabby, looking up with wide eyes and a desperation that this was just one of her other nightmares.

He was up terribly high, the sun kissing his cheeks, but it appeared to dim when he proposed that he was a liar, that he had made this all up, all of it for attention. A scandal for the ages and she felt her heart drop, because that wasn't true, that wasn't him. He was brilliant and kept his mind and heart away from the word fraud. It wasn't in his vocabulary.

June gawked as his tall figure, seemingly shrinking on that six story building, an inconsolable gleam up turned his lips, a lewd laugh echoing into her ears on her side of the story. June tried to move, tried to get to him, a fire burning beside her bright, the heat melting her very core.

She murmurs his name, goes to leave her spot, she plans to retrieve him from the top of that building, hold him in her arms and breathe him in, keep him close, never let go. Squeeze him tight because he was being stupid, an idiot, a miraculous idiot who never once failed her. No one stand's on the edge of a building such as this without a horrendous ideal.

She feels a halt stiffen her heels, his arm lunging out as if to put her on pause and she waits, listening to his order to back up. She doesn't know why she does, every part of her is screaming, every part of her is sobbing, detesting the horrific scene in sight. His lovely baritone concludes that this is his note, because that's what people do and for her to keep her eyes on him.

He sounds…scared, of all things, worried and scared. But of what? She doesn't have time to ask him these useless by gone questions because he's already flying, but this flying is different, this flying leads to a more permanent destination. A destruction that would wreak havoc on her frail little heart.

She can almost hear the sound of his body colliding with the cement, a brutal truth that strings through her bones and ties her up with the consistency of dwindling dismal. It feels as if the whole world around her goes dark, all the color shades grey and black, exiting her system with a twist in her gut.

The outside noise all but nothing, just the sound of mushed in melodies, playing deafening silent and nothing seems to matter except the fact that she needs to move. Everything, the gusts of wind, cars, the people, they're all so slow. She's slow, her pace plodding, unmoving yet she feels her legs breaking with snapped movements.

The crack that humbled her hip is hardly notable until she lands with the dexterity of brick, her cheek coming to a harsh point mixture with the ground. She groans, feeling around herself, the man that had ran into her apologizing and trying to help her up. She shrugs him off, refusing any of his forgivable traits.

She likes the push, it wakes her up to a strident reality, the fall speeding her up, pushing through the people that had surrounded him, cops and doctors alike, some civilian. She's trying, she really is, and all she catches a glimpse of is his scarf, the cobalt speaking volumes the world around her couldn't, that she couldn't.

She's shoving now and a pair of arms wrap around her, telling her this was something she should avoid, she growls and pushes the unknown man off. "Let me through, he's my friend." She's reaching out and to the rest she must seem crazy, her eyes a spiral and her hair already turned a mess.

"I'm a doctor." Some part at the point, like the red sea and she's next to him in a moments notice, her shaky fingers sliding to his wrist with a traitorous amount of concern. Desperately she searches for any sign of life, any beating of his heart all the while ignoring the vigorous amount of blood that is drowning the cement in a musk.

He wasn't dead, there was no possible way he was, Sherlock was smart. He'd have figured out someway to survive, if not for himself than for her, right? He'd never leave her alone, not after everything they'd been through? She was his friend and he hers. Best friends.

She knew how he liked his tea, three sugars and a dap of honey. She knew that he played a horrendous tune on his violin just to peeve his brother into leaving, he loved Chinese food, it was the only food she could manage to sneak past him when he was on a case, when speaking she'd just feed it to him.

Despite what many thought he could be a warming man, she found he liked romance novels, of all things and he enjoyed snuggling. He hated, despised, when he couldn't get things right, couldn't get a definite answer. He hated it when she ignored him, and despised it when she was hurt. As she learned more she realized she knew him better than his own brother.

They were best friends.

He wouldn't leave her like this. Not like this. Sherlock Holmes wouldn't just drop, he wouldn't plunge himself into a foreboding darkness just because he felt destroyed, no, he'd try to fix it. And this wasn't fixing it. Unless…for him it was…it was a truth that led to a bleak future.

She doesn't realize she's feeling for his neck now, fingers cold as she yanks his scarf down, the warmth still there, hazy but there. Her vision grows blurry as the sting settled behind her hazel hues, acidic tears clamping onto her cheeks and clinging to her neck she leans down, nails biting into his coat.

She holds him the best she can, tries to warm him, the once settle frigid frost now nipping, the gelid atmosphere turning blue. He's still warm, but there's no persisting beat that keeps her hope in line, that keeps her chin up high and shoulders pulled back. It feels as if her heart is coming to stop with his as time freezes over and she doesn't know how long she's there for.

But she's sure it's a time that should be considered abnormal, clinging to a now dead body for a comfort that would never return, a despotic twist of imagery as she refuses to acknowledge him as gone. A warm sense creeps about her arms, pulling her back and she's reaching for Sherlock. She wasn't ready, they couldn't just take him, he couldn't just leave her alone. June couldn't be alone. Not again.

The man holding her close speaks, and she recognizes his voice and finds herself holding him, because oh god, she's flying with Sherlock, except her destination wasn't anywhere in sight. "It's alright, c'mere." Lestrade pulls her up, holding her with a strength she had never took notice to, leaving behind the crimson that painted the world now.

She looks back at Sherlock one last time, she had too, to confirm everything that had just laid waste to her and she finds it's not alright. It wasn't alright, it was an austere punishment the world had forced upon her! She's choking out sobs now, her cheeks are itchy and she wants to push Lestrade away, but she doesn't, not certain if she'd be able to walk on her own.

She catches small glimpses of Donovan and Anderson, and she wishes she could be angry, be vile and tear them a new one, because she wants to blame someone that isn't herself. They're the ones at fault, the ones that pushed him to his death, she wants to believe that…but her breathing becomes something of a game and she ignores they're presence and just lets the world drown her in caustic waves, taking away from her what once was hers.

She's breathing, but it isn't oxygen that enters her lungs, its grating draconian and it's drowning her in waves of inconsolable fire.

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June wasn't sure if she was ready to see his grave, ready to see his name engraved into the black slab of stone, him buried six feet under. But when she and Ms. Hudson came to a stop in front of the stone, where he had been lowered beneath the earth she didn't feel anything. Nothing strong enough to strike her out as normal and she felt as if she were inhuman.

Just like she had at her father's grave, a passing emotion that never really pushed her to cry out in the overgrown pain that's supposed to swell and eat you alive. And a part of her was grateful she couldn't feel the heart spitting agony, it saved her the trouble of feeling at lost.

The other part, the side that strung about her limbs and tightly coiled her in, that part wanted to feel the pain, to survive it, to know she's still awake, alive and feeling everything around her with a vivid heart. A vivid torment, stark, lurid and raucous; something that kept her awake nights on end.

Ms. Hudson, reminding June of her existence, licked her lips, breaking the silence. "He was such a messy man, abrupt and terrible with others." She smiles sadly, taking Junes hand and squeezing it. "I'm going to miss him." She says, and it's farther from this world than June is and she realizes this must be hitting her hard as well, like June had forgotten Sherlock meant something to others.

Like a train cricketing into that bad hip of hers. Ms. Hudson was more of a motherly figure to Sherlock, June found, the longer she stayed there in 221b. She'd hear Ms. Hudson come in late at night, ask Sherlock to go to bed so as to not worry her or her 'dear June.' He usually never listened, until one night it was silent and soft little trembles shook June, Ms. Hudson had begun to cry in front of him and he obliged, sending himself off to bed so she'd sleep soundly. That was when she found Sherlock cared for her, much more than June had initially thought. Ms. Hudson gives her one last squeeze and leaves her side, the void filling where she once stood and June sturdies herself into the ground.

This is why she didn't exactly like getting close to others, she liked people, don't get her wrong…she just…the pain that came with it was more than enough to drive her off. After her father died, that little nine year old girl decided she didn't like depending on people, because people leave. At the end of the day all you have is yourself and that has to be enough.

For a time she thought the world would play fair with her, she thought she'd actually get to keep this life of hers, keep him by her side and the thrill that came with it, that this was enough, that the world around her was finally giving her a break. But you can't expect the world to be fair with you because you are fair, that's like expecting a lion not to attack you because you hadn't attack it.

Why can't things that are good just stay?

It was an eager question, one she had prodded before but got nothing from. And she's prodding it again, because looking at his stone; it makes her feel empty and placid. Something that doesn't fit. A puzzle she can't solve, one she doesn't click into because he's gone.

She decides, that eventually she should say something, she was sure that was why Ms. Hudson left her to her own devices. To give June some privacy. She always thought it weird to speak with the dead, like they can hear, but this time, this one time she would.

Because maybe he would, maybe it would put him at rest as it would her. She needed some sort of peace to bring her down from her flight.

With urgency she opens her mouth, expecting words to come out but nothing does, she's at a loss. Her vocals tumble within her throat, her tongue barricading any sound that could have entered the world. She breathes deeply, thinking it over, deciding that'd she'd just go with whatever leaves her mouth.

"You told me once you weren't a hero." Her voice shakes and she has to hold her breath to keep track. "There were times I didn't even think you were human." She thinks back to all his cases, how he moved around the situation with the dexterity of an acrobat, smooth and dangerous. His mind working like a high vaulted computer system, quick and never stopping unless unplugged.

She folds her arms, shuffling her feet into the grass, the dirt kicking up along with the dead leaves, a crunching slapping the air with a swift snap. "But let me tell you this, you were the best man. The most human, human being that I've ever known." Her voice steady now, sure of what she had said, because it was true. "No one will ever convince you that you told a lie…so there." She stiffens, shoulders back and chin high in gratitude.

She felt as if she should leave it at that, but as she moved forward her heart trembled and the words began to fall off the tip of her tongue with a longing she hadn't felt since her younger days. "I was so alone and I owe you so much. Maybe everything." She cracks at this, her once stiff and high standpoint now faltering into a shattering resemblance of the scar on her left shoulder. A scar that would stay and never leave, no matter how many people came and tried to clean it up.

"Just one more thing…just one more thing you can do for me?" A hot molten hides behind her eyes and she closes them tight, fingers digging into her folded arms. "One more possible miracle, one more brilliant miracle…" she kneels down, pressing her forehead against his headstone. "Don't be dead." She shatters, a million little pieces falling to the floor, believing the beautiful lie she had just spoke aloud.

He wouldn't come back.

But that didn't stop her from continuing, from speaking her mind as she forced the tears threatening to break out to stay put. "Would you do that just for me?" Arms wrapped tightly and she's hugging herself, trying to find comfort in herself, because at the end of the day all you have is yourself, and it has to be enough.

She wants to open her eyes, to look at his name in the face and scorn him for leaving her, but this was enough, it had to be. But deep down she knew it wasn't, it never would be, she was left an empty vessel on some highway, never leaving to find her gas. She was empty, but it was enough, it had to be and it would.

She breaks her eyes open, her heart suddenly turning into a coil of barbed wire, a gut twisting despondence that never left and all that fire that she held back was now dripping from her cheeks and landing where he lied beneath her.

All she can think about is him, the quirk of his lips when they found a new game to play, that anger that never subsided when he heard his name, a name that would never let June rest, one that had ruined Sherlock. She thinks back to him, because that man, he had succeeded, he had burnt the heart out of Sherlock.

Skinned him and hung him high for all to see, made him a fraud in the eyes of the viewers. She wants to be angry, she can feel the ire building up in her sternum but she puts it at ease, because right now she just wants to focus on those unbelievably iridescent hues humbled with cerulean around the middle, somehow managing to be a different shade every other minute.

The raven like curls that swept across his head, thick and easily the softest strands she'd ever come by. And the translucent skin that seemed to glow in the sun, impeached with an uncertain amount of vitamin D. She always thought he needed more sun. His resonate timbre holding onto her, keeping her close yet so distant and her heart swells just at the thought of him speaking.

A vicious dive in a spilling yearning held her back, her arms suddenly grew numb and her abdomen kept a tight string wrapped, a knot slick and trying. And the words she's known, that she's repeated in her head, that have been written out on her chest, her arms so openly come pouring out before she can hold them back.

She had kept them inside for so long, wrapped in tyrannical chains, keeping them on the inside because that's the safest place to hide, but he's not here and she has nothing to fear. "I _love_ you…" she's almost mad she had admit it, to his grave of all things and she can feel herself screaming on the inside, clenching for the reality that she had just let herself go.

The last part she had laid her strength in, she torn it apart herself. She, June Watson, had just told a dead man she loved him. Of course she did, she was a fault and so was her love. Everything about her was a mess, a mess that he had easily picked up and carried around in that large coat of his and kept bundled in his scarf when wrapped.

All her weaknesses had become his strengths and all his strengths had become her weakness. It was almost like they were oil and water, almost. Because she only floated when she felt a loss in care, when she couldn't push forward with a proud smile. When she felt as if he were a man with no care in the world, when he didn't take care of himself, refused to acknowledge that sometimes he breaks.

But that was sometimes. Other times, they laughed and joked, witty in comparison. She sighs, standing up from the grave, she rubs her arms in an attempt to warm herself. "Come back to me, alright? Just…I love you, so come back to me." She sucks in a breath, an attempt to hold back a sob that retells in her throat.

Deep within her chest she can feel herself slowly falling apart but ignores it, the distance between now and the pain that would cave her in was nothing compared to how solitary she felt currently.

Wiping her cheeks of their itchy water she turned on her heel and led herself back to Ms. Hudson, giving her a great hug. "We should get going." Ms. Hudson nods, both leaving the cemetery to find a taxi.

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Sherlock gawks at the two women leaving, trying to produce a sound reaction, he was stiff but nowhere near as numb like he had planned on being. During this entire time, he held in the determination he was doing this to protect her, to protect all of them. He had left, he had died because he needed to deal with a system that Moriarty had created, a system made to kill others, such as June, Lestrade and Ms. Hudson.

And he'd be damned if that happened. So he had set off, ready to risk everything just for them, though secretly, all down below of what was an emotionless barrier, of what he thought was alone, was where June Watson had made a home.

A time ago he had ruled out his heart in a matter of life, keeping it far from his brain, his thoughts, because it tempted him to make disastrous decisions that made no sense, logically speaking he chose the right path in avoiding all sense in what one would call the affairs of the heart.

But June Watson…He looks back at it all and finds he's done this all for her. All for the woman who had accepted him as such, and as he realizes this her words are put on replay, echoing through his palace and he wishes he could just block it out. But he can't and decides he won't because June, as she had said, loved him.

He didn't know whether he wanted to keep that at heart or remove it completely. He stares at the flowers she had placed on his grave, the orchids stemmed above, closing in on his name, high and proud but somehow represented a sorrow that could only match his esteemed doctor, soldier and highly held blogger.

He had to keep himself grounded when he saw her presented tears, had to hold back the urge to lunge forward and risk a beating just to assure her everything was alright. He could see it now, the knit of her brow, the snarl on her lower lip and he was positive she'd hit him.

Maybe his cheek, no, she would only aim for his cheek, because if she loved him she'd avoid his nose and teeth. Irene had been right, he accounts and shoves his hands into the pits of his coat pockets. He breathes deeply, soaking in the drastic enveloped melancholy that drenched the area around him.

It smelt of rain and freshly cut grass, but it was thick and heavy with the imagery that'd after she'd be done hitting him she'd embrace him, hold him tightly and never let go, and he'd bring her in with a loving care that he was sure that he was incapable of for years. If she loved him, she'd understand why he did this, so it was here he had convinced himself that when he came back to her she'd hold him to the ends of the earth.

Thrilled and joyous to see him alive and well, cry into his shoulder and scold him for doing what he had done but still, never let him go. He turns on his heel because the thought of all this overwhelms him and he needs to get this over with.

He needs to break what red strings of hate were still left in the debris of James Moriarty. The quicker done, efficient and complete the faster he'd be able to see June Watson, be able to see his generous doctor, brave soldier and fantastic blogger. He would do this all to see her smile again, to see her grow into a state of thrilling ecstatic jumps when they were in the midst of the game, see her bring him in with the graceful concern and care he thought impossible.

It was all for his _golden doctor_.


	2. Four Weeks

It had been four weeks.

Everything was empty, her stomach of its food, or lack thereof, and her mind rid of her thoughts. She was numb, the world around her just an endless motion of taunting and screaming. Her chest coiled, replaying the scene in her head over and over, again and again. His fleeting words and the crushing image of his lifeless frame on the cement floor. She shakes her head, the image not leaving her until she does so. She can't help but soak in a sob, the energy too much and she find's tears already streaming down her cheeks, dropping from her chin with exasperated elegance.

She store at his empty chair, sitting in her own and tucking her legs in tight with her chest, breathing heavily. She hadn't been in this much pain since her father and his passing. Though it was slow it was there and after the third week of his absence it hit her with wave after crashing wave, turmoil creviced the small cracks that had etched into her form, each wave disrupting her family, it ripping like wet paper, torn apart as her sister wreaked havoc on herself. Her mother expecting just too much from the two of them, and she sighs, regret suddenly piercing her tightly in the abdomen.

She ran away after things got to difficult, leaving her sister and mother to join the army. She thought that would protect her, keep her away from the daily signature of pain that her mother dosed her with nonstop. And endless loop of 'Do better.' And 'It's not enough.'

For a time, she believed her mother was mentally ill, emotions in a spiral cage that had no exits. All doors gone and window's smashed; blocked with theoretical brick. It hit her it wasn't just a mental illness, her mother, a kind and nice woman had turned to ice due to the loss of their father. She just didn't know how to deal with it, how to center her gravity on life and found that pushing others to do something she wished she had done had somehow made her feel better about herself.

June's eyes grow into a blur and she flinches, her breath hitching as she attempts to inhale the now toxic air, in taking all the oxygen she could possibly maintain without hurting her lungs. As she did so, she felt all the water from her iris sting inexplicably and tremble down her cheeks as a river does its rocky path. His chair growing musky, just a blob that sat there with nothing but hate and sorrow.

She leans forward, inhaling and exhaling, counting as she does this. She was a mess. The kitchen was a mess, the living room was, her bedroom had tasseled sheets and pillows. She didn't know about his, though, she was sure that maybe it was clean. But she had yet to go in there, afraid she might suffocate on her own tears, die drowning in them. And that was just, how should she put it? A ridiculous way to die, nothing really leading up to it, just stupid and painfully so.

A knock on the door established her attention away from his chair, cleaning her eyes of the salty water that had made a home there, she stood from the less than comfortable chair and headed for the door. Before she could open it, Ms. Hudson inched in with a sad smile on her face. But upon recognition of June's tears, she put on a frown, brows furrowing into the steep of her forehead, her lips pursing.

"Oh, dear, it's late." She voiced, stumbling over to June in a fret. "Nearly three in the morning and you're awake?" She tried to scold June, but finds her words are too soft and soaked with melancholy that she can't contain a soft whimper between breaths. June eyes her, and sighs, nodding hesitantly.

She couldn't stand being in this flat anymore. She realized that she was just apart of it, when he left her, left everyone, that everything that had been placed as decoration was his.

She had only brought a trunk full of items for her bedroom and a small wardrobe that she had had for three years. Nothing of importance, nothing she held sentiment of, nothing to take absolute note of. But Sher- But him, he had a decapitated arm in the fridge she had yet to touch. Scopes and tubes on the kitchen table, a skull on the fire place and his neatly placed violin. Hell, even both the chairs, couch and T.V where his.

She was _his_.

And as much as she was akin to staying here, it didn't feel like home. It only brought a wrath of dismal, so much as breathing in the flat's air was as charming as the smell of death. And she hated that scent, the citrus of oranges and spice that was placid in his collarbones, and the tremor of tobacco that was ever slightly present in the small little corner near the fire place. Because that's where she had hid it, his smokes, and he always pretended not to know, but one night she had caught him and—and—

She stumbles over her thoughts, lost, and nearly breaks down into another sob as shivers wrack her body tightly. Her arms simultaneously clinching around herself, in attempt to make herself feel better, to not feel so empty and barren. But it was no means to an end and she cracked, Ms. Hudson dropping whatever she had in hand and coming over to her set place, bringing her into a warm hug.

"I know, I know…" She says soothingly, kind of her, really. But June just can't stop the tremors that snap her in two fold. "I miss him too." She voices selectively, and June can only feel the rush of more water lapse over her nose and mouth, scratching at her chin as she cages in the desperate wails that want to reach all four corners of the flat.

 _His_ flat.

It's his flat and she can't stand to stay here, not any longer. Four weeks and she was throwing everything away. What was the point of staying if he wasn't there? None. There was no one there to shriek about his boredom, about how simple some people are and that she was somehow something close to special.

She closes her eyes, the scene playing out delicately in her memory. His baritone theme, dark curls and hues that changes color when the east wind blew. Both of them, standing outside a recent crime scene, the cold capturing her foggy oxygen as it was his, and they're silent.

 **He's never this silent, and she grows wary of what's going on in that big mind of his. She takes a chance glance at him, his eyes narrowing down on a specific spot, but she finds it means nothing. Other than his thoughts had run ramped. She looks away, steeling her eyes on the park bench covered in fresh paint. Bad day, she takes note of, the sky covered from land to ocean in grey.**

 **"June?"**

 **His voice captures her in his question, his eyes stuck on her small little frame as she glances up with big hazel hues, and he sucks in a breath. She focuses on that for a moment, before answering his query.**

 **"Yes?" he heaves in another breath, thinking something over, June notes. Seemingly content with the decision he made in his head, he tails out his scarf, the cobalt threads whipping in the frosty gusts of wind. He brings it down to her, wrapping it about her neck with care.**

 **"You're cold." He states a matter of fact, and June realizes she had been shivering. She gives him a soft smile, bringing up the fabric to cover her chin and lower lip. It smells like him, citrus and spice, and a thin coat of tobacco. Damn him, he wasn't supposed to be smoking, little wretch.**

 **"Thank you, Sherlock" at her words he does this weird thing with his lips, his eyes scanning her as she takes in another breath of his scent, though she's sure he didn't see that. But she can see that weird thing, the small turn of his lips before he turns back to stare off in the distance. And in moments like these she can't help but feel her body warm up on its own. The whole conversation as mundane as it gets between the two, and she loves it.**

 **"Chinese?" she nods, and they both leave before Lestrade can bother them with the paper work.**

She squeezes her eyes shut, and she can't control the simper weep that dances from out of her mouth. She bites her tongue and Ms. Hudson leads her back to her chair, sitting her down with a small but sad smile, as if she's biting down her urge to cry with her.

"I'll go make some tea, dear." She walks off, messing about in the kitchen and all June can do is begin to gawk back at the chair, like it had done something to her, and her eyes go dark as she breaches the center of the mantle lividly. She suddenly hated the chair, despised it; why? She didn't know, didn't want to; because she was afraid of what might be the outcome of her inexplicable spite.

Ms. Hudson comes back wandering in, tea in hand as she places it down next to June, eyes seemingly searching for her. But found nothing but a sterile glower that was pointed down at Sherlock's empty seat. She rubs June's arm and places the tea cup on a nearby surface, taking pause as June huffs.

"I can't stay here." She murmurs and Ms. Hudson, about to leave halts. Hauntingly, she bites down on her cheek as the old but endearing woman looks at her in minor disbelief and more over doleful tones. "I'm sorry, I can't I just can't." June manages to keep in her striking wails, and keeps her voice shaky instead, trading one for the other. "Not while he's gone, I can't do it I can't—" June breaks down on herself, tumbling and shattering.

Not that she wasn't already. But somehow, just somehow, she had managed to break herself more. Her voice cracks, what's left of it and her shoulders tremble gravely as she clutches as her chest. Her sobs interrupting her own foul comments, bringing her to hold herself once more, desperately so. And Ms. Hudson holds back her own, her sorrowed and hallowed out whimpers as she slowly marches over to June, eyes wide and disbelieving.

"No, don't say that—"

"I can't." She states, nearly snapping at the kind woman and she holds her tongue, sucking back in the sobs with what dignity—you know what, fuck dignity. She ducks her head into her now folded arms, wails of crestfallen composure as the world around her crumbles. Her world being this flat, that stupid blog, the cases she took up with her mad man. It had all fallen and she was sure there was no possible way she'd be able to pick up the pieces. Ms. Hudson wobbles over, bringing June into an extremely tight hug, and all June can inhale is the smell of honey. And she feels the guilt wrap around her heart with the thorns of a rose.

"I'm sorry." June manages between sobs, her salty liquid of distress soaking Ms. Hudson's blouse. "I'm so sorry, I just can't, I can't" Ms. Hudson nods into the crevice of her navel, a long contempt whimper seeping out of her. They sit there, she doesn't know for how long, but enough for the tears to stop running a muck on June's face and she pulls back.

She sits up right and leaves Ms. Hudson at the chair for a moment, before turning to her. "I'll be gone in a few days, I just—" She takes a breath, her eyes stinging in her moments of calm. "I just need to find a place…" Ms. Hudson nods, understanding in her features and slumped shoulders. Giving her one last hug Ms. Hudson wanders down the stairs and into her flat, leaving June alone.

She silence is overwhelming, and she can't but help feel it sweep her under her feet and tear her apart at the edges. She about leaves, ready to retire in her bed when she pauses, her eyes following down the hall to his bedroom door and she finds herself inching over to it, like a child does candy, with sweaty palms and tired eyes she enters.

And the crisp scent of spice and citrus runs into her, bashing her chest in as she breathes in his all too well known scent, and she feels like crying again. Nothing has been touched, not his bed, wardrobe, the clothes on his floor…she urches in the doorway like she had just invaded his privacy, and she had, in a way.

Eyeing the room she moves without thinking, and sits at the edge of his bed. Lying down she brings herself to her side, sliding one arm underneath his pillows, still atop his blankets with a shiver. She breathes him in, the fragrance all but calming her down, second by second, minute by minute. And temporarily she feels as if he's there with her, and feels her faded mind begin to roam.

She closes her eyes hesitantly. Falling asleep to the comforting aroma that is- was Sherlock Holmes. This is all she had, and it's what she'd take before she'd left.


	3. Two Months

I apologize if Mycroft is out of character. I would like to state that he does indeed know that Sherlock is alive, he acts this way because of two things. The first being he wants to act the part of a secretly mourning brother, something June would believe. And two, he feels a bit guilty about the whole ordeal and the way its hurting June.

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock or any of it's preexisting titles.

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It's all blue, the walls, the carpet and she wants to tug at her hair and scream at the man showing her such a horrid flat. She squints, for the blue cleaning the walls were just a little too bright. The man, showing her the flat, Robert, if she remembers his name correctly turns to her with a fake smile. His teeth showing just a little too much and she thinks he could use some practice on the 'happy' face.

"Do you like it?" She stares at him, a bit longer than ordinary and he takes this as a bad sign and tries to speak again. "I mean, I know the color is a bit too much, but you can change th—"

"No thank you." She reasons before he can finish and she mentally slaps herself for being so rude. He did say she could change the color, but she was on a time limit, she had a new job interview ready down at the hospital on Oak Street. A nice hospital she might add.

She couldn't work down at the surgery anymore, it reminded her too much of him. She knew she was running away from her problems, that this, her behavior was getting far too old for her age. Twenty seven and she was already acting like she was sixteen, on her birthday, didn't get the car she wanted or the cake she received was dry.

He opens his mouth, closing it, and opens it once more like a guppy. "I know the coloring is bad, Ms. Watson, but that will change to your specifications if you rent the place." He adds quickly. She stares at him intently; his eyes wide with hope and instantly she can tell he's new at this.

The suit is wrinkle free and is less than worn out; so it must have been a new one. The way he was tapping his fingers and the nervous stream of lip biting and tripping over his own feet was enough to conclude that he needed her to rent the flat. She sighs, taking one more glance at the interior. She brings her wrist up to look at the time, the portable clock reading 3:42. He did have a point, she could redesign, but she didn't know if she had the money.

Five weeks since she decided she couldn't stay in the flat she and Sher…him shared, and not one other flat came close to her price range. But this one, ignoring the horrible color scheme, was pretty cheap and she could rent it out for quite some time. She'd just have to deal with the overwhelming blue for a time, until she was sure she had the money to do so, and her soon to be new job should help her with that.

The tapping of Robert's foot grew infuriating and she mentally screamed. The smallest of things seemed to be pushing her on edge, ripping open her secure chest of contained rage that she had managed to keep to herself for a good ten years. She bit the inside of her cheek, looking around and leaving the man behind. The kitchen wasn't bad, hardly any blue, and the bathroom was a crème. It seemed the only thing that made her want to bleach her eyes was the living room.

She swerved on the heel of her foot, finding Robert once more with a soft sigh. "I'll take it." She poses, and he smiles largely at her words.

"Great! I'll go get—"

"I'll deal with the lease later." She comments, exiting the medium sized flat. Rober—She looks at his name tag and finds that his name, is in fact not Robert, but Ryan. Well, that was embarrassing. Good thing she hadn't said his name the entirety of their conversation.

"But, I do—"

She's half way down the stairs when he trips, his knees buckling and caving into the back of her thighs. She almost yelps, falling with him, her head hitting against the paste like wall, another loud clunk summons her attention to the left. Rubbing the back of her head, she glances at the young man before her, his brow drenched in red and her eyes widen.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to, I don't know what happened—"

"You're fine." June moves forward, looking at the braze cut on his forehead, pushing at the hems of the open skin he hisses. More blood silently crawls out of the gash and she narrows her eyes. "Tell me if this hurts?" He nods. Pressing down near the seam once more she lifts, pushing down with a soft tug. "From a scale from one to ten how badly it feels."

"Uh, maybe an eight—No seven." She nods; digging into her purse she pulls out a small first aid kit, taking out some cleaners she plants them to his head with a soft graze. Dabbing the wound he hisses again. He likely had a light concussion, and the cut looked pretty deep. She pulls out a thick square of gauze, pressing it to his forehead she brings his hand up and has him hold it.

"Alright, I'm going to take you to the hospital, okay?" He nods slowly, interpreting every word she says, focusing on the curve of her lips as if that would help.

She stands, her vision darkening and she holds to the wall for support. Leaning down she yanks Ryan up, bringing his arm around her shoulder. They leave the flat complex all together and she hails a Taxi. After a good five minutes one pulls off to the curb and she hops in.

"Great Ormond Street Hospital." The cabby driver nods, before pulling back out into the street. They're there in a few minutes, pulling Ryan out she hurries him to the large building. Upon entering her breath is drawn from her lungs, the place entirely too large, but she liked it. Coming up to the front desk, a woman with a batman lanyard and red hair paid them hardly any attention, June coughed.

She looks up, eyes wide at the man next to her. "He needs medical attention." She nods, waving a hand and before she knows it June is ambushed by a nurse, taking him away from her. She waves to Ryan and he gives her an impish smile.

Well, today was going just great. Looking around, observing much more carefully she about sighs, the place was out of her range. Or at least she was convinced that was the case. Her other job she was over qualified, but here, she wasn't so sure.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" June turns to the young lady at the desk and she nods.

"Uh, yes. I'm here for a job interview." June pulls out her watch and breaths out relieved, she'd made it on time. "June Watson." The young woman nods, typing in her name.

"Oh, yes, you're here for the four'o'clock interview." She re-examines. June bobs her head yes and she gives June a lanyard with her name on it. She quirks a brow. "Sorry, it's mandatory, you'll find Doctor Bailish on the thirteenth floor. He's in his office, so last hall to your right and all the way down." June says her thanks and heads to the elevator. Her nerves were all but bundles and she felt as if she were dry drowning.

Upon entering the elevator she found that only worsened her problem and she breathed deeply. She hoped this didn't go awry like the last interview at St Marks. The Doctor there interviewing her looked too much like _him_ and she almost had a mental break down. Dark hair, pale skin and eyes that glowed when praised.

God, this was sad, running from everything. She did it, countless times, from her family, her work, and now the flat…Deep down, she knew it wasn't just the flat she was running from. It was the situation as a whole. She despises the way it makes her feel, so she ran from that as well. Or at least tries, but who was she kidding, the farthest you can run away from feelings is...well...It wasn't a choice. She closes her eyes and steadies her breathing, but upon closing her lids she has the pleasantries of seeing the whole ordeal over again.

Sherlock watching her, the gusts of gelid breeze swift and rigid, and she swears she can see the glister in his eyes from all the way down there. His alarmed tone when she goes to meet him up there, talk him down and hold him in her arms, smell the citrus and spice ease off of him. That was her goal, and she had achieved it.

Not in the way she wished she had. The scene, his fleeting form plunging, disappearing behind that god awful truck with a sickening bounce and clump she screams his name. And at the exact moment, when he landed, her heart was tugged and ripped out of her chest with the leniency of a bulldozer lifting dirt from the earth. It was bruised, tattered and strewn across her rib cage and down her spine. She had to watch it, a dozen times in Afghanistan. People dying all around her.

When she was little she believed that people fell like autumn leaves. Softly drifting through the air, the breeze carrying them and landing them with a loving clement. She had realized quickly, after entering her world of war, that that was far from the case. She had almost forgot, the way people fell, until he sunk from that roof and—

She rasped for air, clawing for it, and it wasn't too late for her to figure out she was having a panic attack. She grasps for the bars around her, holding onto them for dear life, because— _oh god_ ; if she let go she was afraid she might drop with him.

Her throat dried out before she had time to swallow, the rugged breaths she now drew only grated on her tongue and stung bitterly. Clutching at her chest, she counted aloud. "One, Two…Three…" She watches as each level lights up on the elevator, passing each floor one second at a time. She needed to calm down, she couldn't appear rattled for this interview. She needed this.

She _needed_ it.

"Six, Seven…Eight…" She'd be fine by the time she hit ten. She'd be sound and considerate of others. She'd give smiles as she passed down the hall and she'd hold her breath when things got too hard. She's been doing it for years now. What makes it so different now…she knows the answer, but refuses to point it out and instead focuses on her in take of oxygen, counting once more. "Nine…Ten." She forcefully relaxes into the paneled wall behind her.

The low of her back hitting against the bar of metal, the intense chill frosting her back and she leaps forward from it. A small beep signed off and the doors to the thirteenth floor opened.

Stepping out, she smoothed the back of her hair, the waves dancing up around her arms. Pulling it all off to the side she took a deep breath and marched forward.

She _needed_ this.

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"Afghanistan?" June gives him a slow nod. She's fiddling with her fingers, avoiding eye contact, she knows that's bad. It shows symptoms of social anxiety, unable to communicate with patients wasn't in any way a good thing for a doctor. "I'm fascinated. You were a doctor, solider, what else?"

'A blogger for a consulting detective' she thinks to herself, negatively, but lets it roll off her tongue before she speaks about it. "That's just about it." He gives her a short smile, looking back down at her resume, he clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth and she wants to tear it out.

She didn't understand, the sound of clicking had been driving her insane. It seemed that many were doing this just to anger her, put her into a dilemma she wouldn't be able to back out of because she had already snapped. Holding back any utterance that threatened to dishevel the man in front of her, Doctor Bailish, she squeezes her fingers into the palms of her hands.

"Well, it appears you are quiet capable for the job." He speaks more to himself and she finds herself examining him. The black of his hair turning grey with pricks of white, his blue eyes almost a darkening distress of ridden anxiety, and the way his fingers thumbed her resume was just as irritating as the clicking of his tongue.

Once he was done flipping through the papers he settles them down, the white clashing with the black of his keyboard, and some of them whither due to the A/C in the office they sat in. She was senile, she had to admit, who turns the A/C on in the middle of Autumn? He clacks his teeth, typing something into his computer before he finally responds.

"When would you like to start?"

It's silent, the ticking of his office clock; the only reminisces of time as she folds his words in half and tries to disassemble them in her head. She got the job? It didn't exactly surprise her, but she couldn't help but stress that she had actually gotten it. There were several other people perfectly qualified for the job. Some who were probably better. Many who weren't going through an existential crisis in their life.

She guessed she was just in mock shock in the fact that she had been given the job so eagerly. "Uhm…Well, next week might be good." She nearly questions, the query perking inside and out, lifting the man as he raised a brow. She hurries to correct her words as if she had said something wrong. "I'm moving…so it might be a problem to just start…" He seems to catch the hint and gives her a jovial beam.

"Of course." He stands holding his hand out, she shakes it, and finds his palms are sweaty with a stick that makes her want to fling her arm back. "Just call my physician assistant, Kara, when you can come in, of course do it ahead of time."

"Thank you." She turns to leave, his eyes on her back with a persistence she finds unnerving to say the least.

At least she had the job. She couldn't stand working at the surgery anymore, it was long and boring…and she was just making up excuses for the real reason why she was leaving it. The same reason as to why she was leaving the Flat, leaving Ms. Hudson…leaving everything behind. And she felt some sort of heat grow in the back of her head, an anger she hadn't realized was there perching in her chest.

She was doing what he had done. Leaving everyone; everything. She shouldn't just run away, but she wants to at the same time, like a drug, her insistence on fleeing was just as addictive. She feels as if she isn't strong enough, that she's that wet paper that kept her family center and still, but still wavering as it was tugged along this façade.

This whole thing was a façade. She knew it, her smile, that special glint in her eyes, the way she held her chin high in hopes that this gut wrenching torment would just leave. Let her be and she could get on with her life. Leave it all behind. She'd think it'd be better to just forget, feel nothing on the inside for the things around her. Including him.

And she almost want's to slap herself for just thinking that. She didn't want to get over it, she didn't want to forget him; she didn't want him to just be a faded memory as she drifted out into that sea of void desolation. That irritation she was feeling only moments ago is replaced with a heavy sided dose of inconsolable forlorn.

She blinks hard, forcing the tears that boded to escape, her hues glazed in a thick stasis of water, one of salt and miserable dejection. She wants to hold herself, break down and let herself come undone, just for a while. But she can't. She has to move forward.

She's at a crossroads, one that tugs her left and right before she can make up her mind. Both decisions raucous, slowly subduing her on the inside.

 _Forget him_.

Or

 _Let him be her pain._

Her ever changing pain, her ever changing thoughts to move on, the remarkable escalation puts her on pause and she feels the world around her spin out of control. And just when she thought she was starting to finally, finally, have it under control. Under that little thumb of hers, to push and bob whenever she liked she finds that she doesn't and that control she had convinced herself of having was slipping away all to quickly.

She sucks in a raspy breath, hailing for a cab. She sighs, nothing coming her way, and she assumes it's because she looks like a mess. She's ready to walk back to the flat, force herself to look at his commodity and not feel a thing, but that was near impossible. She missed him, didn't want to, didn't want to feel so much, but she did. And for once she wished she could be like him, delete memories on a whim that she deemed unimportant.

But that was just the problem wasn't it? He was important. His sly remarks, his little deductions just to show off, the thrill of the game that sprinkled down upon her when he came into her life. Making her feel like she had some importance in the world for once, like she meant something, like she could do anything.

If she were delete that memory, of him plummeting off that building, she'd do it…she thinks she'd do it. But that's the problem with memories. They're what make us who we are. They keep us in line; tell us what not to do and what to do. Keep use safe in dire times, keep us sane when we are lonely, keep us happy when we need some cheering up. And sadly enough can keep us exposed and tired, if the using the right memory suicidal.

She was ready to give up, the cabs ignoring her, and she wonder if she really did look like a mess. Like some unstable lady with a thousand problems who happened to crawl out of the depths of the alley way's just around the corner. She would just walk, it was good idea, keeping the environment healthy and all that.

Plus, it lengthened the time she'd have away from the flat. She'd have to pack her things, now that she thought of it, and she wondered what her room looked like now. She hadn't slept in there for the last few weeks. It was the couch, chair or his bed. It didn't feel right sleeping in there, but it didn't feel right anywhere, not anymore.

She thinks back to it, the flat, the smell of death. Citrus and spice, that tint of tobacco that seemed to overwhelm her lungs at the worst of times. Then there was that pinch of tea in the air, the crisp scent it left hanging over her head. But that smell had long been forgotten, she hadn't made tea for almost four weeks. She couldn't find the strength to. Couldn't find it in herself to touch anything in that kitchen; his kitchen.

Sometimes, if she's lucky, she hears him. She was positive she was just going insane, but if she focused hard enough she could hear the distant complaints of the tall man, his exaggerated synopsis of things around him.

She's nearly a block away from the hospital when a familiar black car rides up next to the sidewalk, she turns to look and narrows her eyes. It was one of Mycroft's…She ignores it, continuing her dreadfully tiring walk. The window rolls down and the woman who texts day and night pokes her head out; Anthea.

"Get in." she pushes, but it's obvious she's reading a text. It must've been from him. She keeps her walk steady, unable to look at the beast of a car. It's too much, she'd spent so much time avoiding anything remotely related to him. Mycroft was the last thing she wanted, needed, in fact she might as well try to hide. But he'd find her. He's the British government.

You can't exactly hide from that in London. "June, please get in." She pauses.

It's his voice.

She slowly rounds, her eyes landing on said man, Mycroft looking through the window with in, his lips managing to be stern yet curved in a frowning state. She's hot on the idea of just booking it, running for her dear life, because she's not ready for this. Not him, the two were too similar. In their own way's. Both deducing everything in sight, acting as if every other human being on the planet was a Neanderthal, pets to toy with. And both extremely arrogant with a tar of, shockingly, nice fashion.

Before she has a chance to say anything, Mycroft steps out from the vehicle, the door open as he waits for her to get in. She stares at him, uncertainty painted across her face. He's looking at her exactingly, fingers straining on the handle of the car door.

"Get in." His tone is dangerous, but in a way she'd never heard it before, at least not directed at her. She'd only heard him use such a pitch with Sher…yeah, with Sherlock. She heaves out an exhausted breath, the steam rolling from her lips as it compensated the air around her. She looks around her, still, and he goes to bring her in but she moves before he can.

She steps in, settling into the leather seats, the warmers beneath heating her thighs. Mycroft sits across from her, closing the door, blocking the barrage of frost that lied outside the car. He stares at her, the car moving and she refuses to look at him. She's watching the cement speed as the car cruises past each and every block it has to offer. He opens his mouth to say something, but pauses, and she finds her heart coming to a stop when he finally does.

"I am aware you are looking for a flat." She doesn't look at him, doesn't give him any confirmation, she doesn't need to. She knew he already knew, there was no point in telling him so, if not he could just deduce her status and figure it out the Holmes way. He coughs. "I am considerably certain that you wish to obtain a new flat, in that case, I…I want to give you something." She's looking at him now, he's holding out an envelope, waiting impatiently for her to grab it.

She has a pretty good bet on what's in that black envelope, but doesn't say, she guesses instead. "What is it?" He almost scoffs in her direction, as if it were obvious, and it was. She didn't exactly know why she as asking, maybe to pass the time?

"Money." His voice is flat with irritant.

"Why?" She pushes.

Immediately a look of discomfort and displeasure reaches her perimeter, he avoids contact with her brilliant hazel orbs, both large and addled, the signature look of June Watson. He pulls the envelope back, staring at it with a gaze she'd never seen before. It almost appeared to be regret, maybe anger; she could even spot a pinch of sorrow in his marble colored hues.

"If you do not want it—"

"No, I don't." She pips, naturally, as always avoids help when she needs it most. But being the nice Scottish lady she was, she couldn't just take his money. Even if she did need it. And she really needed to stop interrupting people today, it was becoming a bad habit. "I appreciate your…whatever this is, but I'm doing fine on my own." She finishes, finally the woman sitting next to June, her texting all but stopped. He didn't look convinced, both brows reaching the top of his hairline.

But fell back, taking note of her words he ignored them politely. Setting the envelope on her lap he leans back into his seat. The rest of the drive is quiet and it isn't long before they pull up to 221b Baker Street, and she finds herself frowning. Not wanting to go in.

 _Oh_ , she really doesn't want to.

He was everywhere in there. And she didn't know if she could handle it right now, not after the issue in the elevator, not after having her memory refreshed of the Holmes attitude. She thought she'd been getting along, better than she had a few weeks ago, but it seemed she had yet to make progress.

It was sad, really, that she couldn't even go into a flat without wanting to break down in a fit of hysteria. It's not like he was the only person in her life. She had family, a few other friends…she looks back on it and finds he was the only one who mattered. She doesn't realize she's been sitting in the car for over five minutes until Mycroft speaks up. Unsettled, she might add, and it gets her undivided attention.

"Do you wish to go somewhere else, Ms. Watson?" she's shocked, his words calm and, well, concerned. In the most professional way, if that were possible. She assumed it was, because he just did it, with a dull expression and an irritated look in his eyes he still managed to sound the tiniest bit worried.

He must've thought he hid it pretty well from her, because his expression is unchanging. And he looks far from trying to change the attitude he was letting her perceive.

"That…uhm, that would be nice." June murmurs and he nods to the driver who pulls away from the curb, the second time that day, just for the convenience of June. And she's bewildered as to why he's being kind to her, doing this, why would he even consider her feelings on this entire situation? Wasn't caring a disadvantage? Unless this was just an inconvenience that he felt the need to push.

"Where would you like to be taken?" She glances up at him, thinking, tugging her coat around her torso like it would help with the bitter cold that had wrapped itself around her. The heat of the car doing nothing to stop it.

Her thoughts roam, tracing the silver lines of what clouds she could define; she leans her head against the window. All destinations, stops all seem unimportant, finding that there's nowhere she wants to be. Frigid static frames her limbs, numbing her down to the bone and all she can hear is her beating heart. It's unsatisfactory and she wants to hold her breath, see how long she can keep it beating without it rising in tempo, until her lungs feel like their about to burst and her head pounds with the feet of a thousand drums.

All color is leaving her, what was once a bright light on the streets, the lamps glowing with a gold all but turn to a dulled out grey. Everything passing her by in seconds, minutes, a passing time she doesn't wish to shorten. She was lost.

She didn't know where to go. She didn't have anywhere to go. That flat was no longer hers. All the color that she once retained in her vision was disappearing, reds and blues, even pinks all leaving her. What once was a rainbow in her bright eyes was now a storm that quaked the world around her. It ripples through her frame and makes her lame, in her side there's a shame, the pride of keeping her mouth shut. Not speaking aloud of just how much she missed him, how much she wanted to be just near him, to smell him, hear his rattled thoughts aloud.

It never rested, it was constantly on her mind, bleeding her out, and every day was a battle. A sullen song buried deep in her body, holding the sounds of what she was, losing what left she had. She was lost. She jerks back into her seat as surprise contours her features, Mycroft dapping a handkerchief on the bounce of her cheek. She gawks at him, and finds he's faded out too, the same despair, one void of emotion.

No one else would notice, no one else could. It was his expression he kept on all accounts, when he was angry, tired, jabbed and she figures it's the same when he's in a state of desperate melancholy.

"I'd like to just...just not stop." He nods, the driver making random turns now. She rests against the colorless seal of the car, her emotions imploding and vacuuming in all of what she had left.

She was lost for her home had already died.


	4. Her Impervious Ballad

Hey, so this is the forth chapter! So, a few friends and I were talking about who would be a good...?face? I guess for June Watson. One of them suggested I use Teresa Palmer. She's a beautiful actor and I love all her movies, so I have decided that will be June. Please enjoy the chapter, leave a favorite...or follow? I don't know I'm not used to this site. Only if you want to of course! But that showing of support is an amazing booster and motivator for writing!

...I am deeply sorry if that came off as rude and/or attention seeking, truly, I do not mean to come off that way.

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock nor any of the previous titles before it.

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"Are you sure he's alright?" June looks up from her clipboard, a worried mother standing in front of her with curt brows and bright eyes blooming in concern. She could understand the worry, Lukas, the mother's child had been coughing an awfully lot and had a rash. It was nothing to be concerned about. The cough escalating from a dry throat and the rash just a minor allergic reaction to grass. June nods.

"The cough really is nothing, though I would check with your dermatologist and see what you can do about the rash." June stands, taking the board to the side and giving a smile to the young boy. She found ever since joining this line of work in the hospital she'd only been receiving children for check-ups. Apparently this hospital was famous for the care it held for the youth.

Though she had received a number of elderly here and there, and two or three young adults. The young mother, who's name she had learned was Adeline gave her a curt nod in understanding. June opens up a cabinet to her right, standing on her tip toes she pulls out a jar of lollipops. Bringing it round for Lukas to see.

His eyes grow wide with enthusiasm and jumps off the seat he had placed himself in. Skipping over in glee he watches the small delights shake around in the jar. June kneels down, opening the glass jar with delicacy.

"Choose a flavor." June speaks and the little boy peers in like it's a holiday and his mother snickers off to the side.

"What kinds are there?" she looks in, staring at the arrangement she had made only two days ago. She had been told it made kids happy to get a treat after any sort of check-up, something to look forward too when seeing a doctor.

In the last two days in had increased the behavior of those tiny little people around her. Especially when they found out she had to use a needle.

"Well, there's strawberry, watermelon, blueberry—"

"I want the blueberry!" He shouts and she gives him a simper beam, reaching in she pulls out the desired flavor and hands it over to him. He tears the wrapper off within seconds and pulls the treat into his mouth with a hum in approval. June stands, capping the lid atop and puts it back in its cabinet.

Adeline gives her a nice smile and shakes June's hand. "Thank you Dr. Watson. Hope to see you soon-on less worrying terms." June ushers out a clean cut beam, hoping it appeared warm enough for the two to take seriously. They both leave, the little boy giving her a wave with one the largest toothless grins she'd ever seen.

And she can't help the small crease in her lips as she waves back. The door shuts and she's alone in the small office. She goes to her desk, reading through some of her clients documents. Making sure medicine was arriving on time in the pharmacy, or if she needed to update something on her charts.

Palming her chin she leans in, yawning, holding back the exhausted drift in her shoulders as she stares blankly into the screen of her computer. She can't help but let her thoughts roam the wild, jumping from one conclusion to another. Leaning back into her seat and tries to hold her breath, count to ten, because he suddenly decides to make an appearance in her mind. Brilliant hues, dark silk topping his brilliant head, the baritone singing in the back of her mind and she finds she can't find a comfortable position and leans off to the side, boarding her hip into the small hole between the cushion beneath her and the arm rest on her elbow.

Hoping that it would put pause to the upcoming pain she'd feel pang in her chest and entrap her heart in a soaring sense of discomfort. It isn't long before it happens, the agony coiling up like barbed wire with an agonizing metal prodding. She sucks in a chocked breath; her arms entrap her stomach, like it would somehow help her with her problems, help unravel the coil that sat with the subtlety of a wasp's sting.

It doesn't and she feels as if she might relapse into what happened last night. The terror streaking through her body and she can feel the attack rising up in her spine, choking her of her very last breath. She'd be moving out today, she thought she'd do it sooner, she'd planned on it, wanted it. In every way possible.

But she couldn't push herself to do it, no matter how much it pained her to do so, she just couldn't. So here she was, four months in, and her stuff still lied untouched in that flat of his. Dust climbing the walls and filling her shared oxygen with Ms. Hudson with coughs and annoyance. But she somehow felt unbothered by the clearly unhealthy environment she had found herself in.

She sinks into the chair, the wheels to the metal brackets swinging forward and her chest hits the wooden table with a clink, the buttons of her new shirt bouncing off of it. Plaid, she had noted when she had gotten it, wasn't that bad on her.

At least by itself, it wasn't.

She folds her fingers in, combing skin by skin and rests both hands on her stomach. A lurching growl soaked her up and she sighs. She needed to eat, didn't want to, but she had to or she'd never hear the end of it from the British Government. Without a brother to boss around and care for, she was the next best thing, at least that's just what she assumed.

Mycroft always knew when she skipped out on a meal, or stayed in for the day, calling in sick at work just so she could slowly fade away in the dusty air around her in the flat, let the sickening aroma of citrus and spice intoxicate her. Which meant he was watching her. She'd be lying if she wanted him to just stop. It was comforting, somewhat, to have someone for once check her health with genuine concern. Or whatever Mycroft's reasoning was.

June gets up, rounding her desk and pulling out some more papers. Her stomach would just have to deal with it; she didn't feel like eating right now. She didn't feel like doing anything, she was worn down to the edge, dull and numb. She saw no reason to just continue on, not that she would stop, but it was just hard to get up some days and actually go around for business.

The days were long and boring, _oh_ , they were so boring. She had forgotten how much she hated sanctuary, how much it dulled the blade of enthusiasm. She thumbs through her documents, nothing on record she finds interesting and she sighs. She wished something, for the life of her, would just pop out and entertain her.

But it felt sort of wrong to even want that, wrong to wish for winged freedom, without _him_ here. She always shared those moments with him, they both did, but now since he was gone it felt like the rush in her life was as well.

It had drained her of her color, her laugh, her experience and life. She just wanted to groan in her bed, let the shades of gray and black engulf her entirely and turn into a rubbish dust.

She missed him. She missed him more than she thought possible. She bites her cheek and holds her breath. Of all the things she specifically remembers, of all their little adventures, that day in The Woman's house is what brings her down the most.

Not because of the insanely gorgeous woman that stood naked in front of him, no, it was what he had told her behind the other side of the wall when she had pulled the fire alarm. The one sentence that took her by the sleeve and continuously tugged at it.

 _"Amazing how fire exposes our priorities."_

It had. He had been a priority, but even then, when he was dancing on the edge of toppling off that building, that fire hadn't been bright enough. She should have ran to him, tried to get up there before he dropped. She shouldn't had listened to his selfish words, listened to his consulted tone. She stood there, like a waiting duck, watching as he tumbled away from her with a fleeting absence.

He was there and then he wasn't and she thinks back to the frightened beat of her heart and realizes, yes, the fire was bright enough and hotter than need be. But she had ignored it on his word. On his command. Because for a moment, she actually thought he'd step down from the ledge and give her a hug and laugh at her insolence of the whole issue that he had just gift wrapped and handed to her for an early birthday present.

She'd be so much happier, better if that were the outcome. Stable too, she heaves and spikes from that barbed wire prickle down her spine. It squeezed and pulled until she was sure she couldn't breathe, she tried to count but all it seemed to do was worsen the situation so she held her breath instead. She shut her eyes harshly, pulling up images of anything but him. It all led to Harry, and she wondered how her sister was doing. She had to wonder, anything to get him off her mind, anything to set her up from this mess.

She focuses on the long strands of brown that reached her elbow with ringlet curls, the dark circles that sat comfortably under her sapphire eyes and her breath that was held captive in alcohol. But no matter how hard she tried to focus on the older woman it all led back to the raven curls and sonorous volume, and the hues that lit like the galaxies above.

 _She missed Sherlock Holmes._

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She sat on the edge of the stairs, staring aimlessly at the open door the led her out of 221b, for good this time. Ms. Hudson comes into sight, frame standing in the entrance with a forced smile on her cherry lips. "All your stuff is in the cabby, now…" She moves towards June, frozen in front of her before settling down next to the young woman.

Ms. Hudson brings her arms around her, soaking in her scent, memorizing it before letting go. Rubbing her back she hums, and June leans into it, a source of comfort she hadn't felt since she was a little girl crying over her dead turtle. Her father stroking her back in hopes she'd stop her crying, so Harriet could finally catch some sleep.

She sucks in the dry air and turns to Ms. Hudson. In a way, she was her new mother, she took note of that and brought her into another hug. Ms. Hudson, seemingly surprised wrapped her arms around her once more, shuffling in the sniffles that barricaded her sense of oxygen.

"I'm going to miss you dear…" She whimpers and June can't help but hold onto her tighter, careful around the hip she obviously needed to get checked. June pulles away, standing with the wipe of her pockets. Ms. Hudson is crying now and June lowers herself down, wiping some of the water from her cheeks "I'm going to miss you so much…oh, Juney!" She stands and embraces the blond in a heap.

June feels the world around her begin to tumble once more, the shaking, the vibration more than just an ignorant spin of colors and shades. It was a crack of innocent chaste, a substance so rare it was hard to grasp when found, and June was letting it go.

She stands there for a moment, before sniffing in the hoister of emotion that lied embedded in her chest and the back of her throat, the desert taking claim to her mouth and she needs to swallow thickly just to get the near presence of moisture down.

She felt bad for leaving Ms. Hudson behind, in a desperate call for June to stay she said she'd even lower the rent, and leave her alone if that'd get her to stay. She'd never take that offer, Ms. Hudson was the bright light in a dark room, her voice on daily subjugation was needed. Not to mention she was already paying the lesser amount and it just didn't sit right with her. She'd call Ms. Hudson, have tea with her, but she just couldn't stay.

But she was sure she'd keep in touch with the nice woman. She planned on it, in fact, to come over whenever she possibly could. June's about to leave when Ms. Hudson speaks up, voice shaking but in one of the most mature ways she's heard in a long time.

"Do you want to…I don't know, keep something of his…" The question was rather sudden and June feels her feet plant into the ground, like they had just grown roots and she wouldn't be able to leave until someone cut her down. "There's so much of his stuff up there, and I don't just want to sell it, or put it in the storage." She quips swiftly, June turning to Ms. Hudson with a sad smile.

She honestly didn't know if she wanted any of his things. It didn't feel right to just take his stuff, even if he wasn't here to scorn her for it, and she folds her arms as if she were cold. And if felt like it, the bristle of frost sliding down her arms and hugging her legs.

She didn't want anything of his to weigh down on her shoulders and keep her grounded in this space of depression. But then there was the sentiment of doing so and she just…She knew a memory should be enough but it wasn't, she wanted to be able to hold something of his, be able to feel something he had physically touched. She sighs with a hesitant nod.

Heading up the stairs the aged woman follows behind. She enters and it feels like a swift kick to the shin, but continues in anyways. She eyes the room around her, dust camouflaged in the heated sun glare that shined through the windows and her eyes land to the one thing that kept her up at night other than his insane experiments.

She stalks over to it, at an alarming speed, even for her to register and she holds the case like she had just found the one thing in life that'd keep her sane.

His violin.

That's what she wanted. Even if she didn't know how to play, she'd rather have it gather dust in the corner of her flat, propped up and beautiful than have someone else touch it. It was selfish, she knew that, but she couldn't control it. She'd rather have him to be the last one to play it, not some unknown musician from who knows where.

Ms. Hudson watches intently and June tucks between her arms like it were a baby, and she shuffles over to the older lady with a small but sorrowed gleam, her lips curved up but toyed and turned in ways that just weren't natural. Not for June. For June, her smiles were gracious, large, wide and full of so much life and it killed Ms. Hudson to see her like this.

"Is this…is this alright?" June queries, Ms. Hudson bobbing her head quickly.

"Of course it is, dear." An endearing beam pitches in on her face and June can't help but smile back. It being small of course, but it was there and Ms. Hudson felt some sort of accomplishment in seeing it. She'd finally gotten her dear June Watson to praise a sincere life holding dimple. She almost felt content with June leaving, if the terms were set on this, the moment kept in place before the young woman left her.

June decided to have some tea with her glorious landlady before she left, paying the taxi extra just for the trouble she was putting him through. He took it with delight and said he'd just get some Coffee from down the street. She and Ms. Hudson spoke for a time, about numerous things that led along the lines of family matters all the way to Sherlock.

By the time she left it was almost eight, and in a hurry, called her taxi driver and left as quickly as she came. Which for Ms. Hudson was just not long enough. It wasn't long until she was staring at her new empty flat. She settled her boxes on the floor, yanking her bag up her shoulder as the taxi driver came up with the last box. He was kind, she had learned and almost felt guilty for letting him carry her things in.

"Are you sure you won't need help unpacking?" She swiveled on the balls of her feet, facing him she flashed him a bright smile. It was fake, but he didn't know that, and what he didn't know wouldn't hurt.

"No, I'm good." She takes the box from him, setting it down with the rest. "Thank you." She turns, giving him his money, well his extra pay that he obviously deserved for the generous act, and he gives her a grateful gleam before leaving.

She took a breath, looking around and found she still had a long ways to go before this place felt at home. She sat down on the one of the boxes, the label reading 'Pants'. Resting her chin in her palm she took in a breath of clean air. The oxygen vacant of dust, citrus and spice, everything that was Sherlock Holmes.

She decides it might be best to go to sleep, about to get up off the box she was currently sitting on she glared at her own mistake. Of all the things she forgets about, it's the furniture. Why didn't she buy it ahead of time? She'd just have to make due…Maybe she'd spend the night at a motel she saw just down the road.

Better than sleeping on the ground.

She heaves herself up and goes to leave, but something catches her eye, and she pauses. In the corner of the room, to her right his violin, case open and wood shining in the human produced light along with the stars and moon, the stars that he had failed to keep in his 'Mind Palace'. She sighs, slumping her shoulders and takes her time to just stare at it.

Stare at what had been. What was there to keep her calm through the nights of disaster. She remembers it perfectly, sweating and ridged.

 **She gathers blankets and sheets between her legs, eyes wide but heavy with tiresome fright. Everything was red, the sand beneath her, the bodies that piled beside her painted in a crimson that dried her vision inexplicably and she shoves her face into the pillows beneath her. It was all just too real and she couldn't help but want to cry. Fisting the cotton covers, the essence of what was supposed to mean peace turns into something so much more.**

 **The pure entanglement of night terrors for the great doctor, soldier, June Watson. She breathes deeply, counting her numbers over in her head like she had practiced and realizes it does nothing to sooth the mess she has become. There's the same ringing in her ears, the same pitch that hallowed her out after the large burst of flames that erupted next to her team and the shouting of men scrambling from the scene.**

 **And she can't save him. That little boy. The one screaming for her to help him, take him away from the bad men, to save him and his mommy, the mommy that lied next to his feet in a heap of her own blood. In a rush of courage she charged over, leading her men to their certain doom. They were outnumbered ten to one. And she still led herself into that mess.**

 **But she couldn't stop herself, he was only a child, six at most. And before she knows it they're being shot at, the kid's head blown from his neck before he has time to wail in agony and she sucks in her tears, but it does nothing to compose her slowly crumbling form.**

 **She buries her nose into the pillows beneath her, nothing but her perfume to welcome her and she sulks out a breathtaking sob.**

 **Her largest mistake by far, nearly all her men dying, death taking them by the ankles and sweeping him under the currency of taxing ichor. But one of them…he had lost limbs and she can't help but think she could've done something to stop it. Maybe if she had thought through her actions before actually acting upon them they wouldn't have lost so much.**

 **If she had actually coordinated a plan, she'd have actually saved that baby boy…that little boy with great brown eyes and dark doey hair, his face melted in a set of despair and confusion, because he just didn't understand what he had done wrong to deserve this. He spots her hiding behind what appeared to be his battered home.**

 **He starts yelling, screaming and the men just write it off as him yelling to the sky for help. Because they hit him, repeatedly and she can't take it anymore, flinching every time the back of the older males guns pops upside his head. Jagging out from her spot and her men, being formidable and brave followed her. They didn't have to, they shouldn't have at all, but they did.**

 **After everything, after the red and the black, after losing her team, soldiers,** ** _friend's_** **, it gets worse. Like a violent storm it twists her, because of all that is holy and dreaded they just don't** ** _kill_** **her. And her life becomes some sort of game, a tormenting game, one with a timer right over her shoulder, the ticking loud and thrashing her about with consequences so high, so tall she can't afford to lose.**

 _ **But she does.**_

 **She squeezes her eyes shut brash, hot molten dripping down her cheeks and staining her pillow. The same ringing. It was tolling her, shredding what tranquility she had left, taking her inch by inch in aggressive clinches of mind shifting torment. The silence around her took hold, keeping her in place, her legs steady as her shoulders wobbled with each passing sob; that on her account managed to be silent, escaped her dry lips, escaped her entirely.**

 **It was sudden. The music that drifted through the air and calloused her body with such a delicacy she could honestly say she felt the relief rise from her heavy and burdened chest. She tried to tone her whimpers down, just so she could hear the string of the violin, like it was her life line.**

 **It was soothing, caring almost and she found herself actually growing content for the time being. All the post pardon stress slowly decreasing string by string, note by note. It was random, she'd never heard this song before, never heard this rhythm. But found it didn't matter, she found that it inexplicably kept her thoughts far from disaster, it keeping her from destroying herself.**

 **The melodic ballad singing out to her and she closes her eyes softly. Listening intently to the shivering waves of each note, like they were made for her, were her. She finds comfort in it, like he had begun to play on her accord. Her breathing steadies and she's greeted with a calm she'd never felt before, so valiant and warm, like the wool blanket that surrounded her lithe form right now.**

 **A calm that overthrew her storm.**

Ever since that night, it happened like it was on cue, when she woke up from herself made disaster his songs drifted through her room and soothed her back to a stateless cloak of black. Making her way over to the violin, she picks it up curiously, all the beautiful melodies he had played on this off to the side on pure white paper. She had taken them along with the wooden instrument, she couldn't help it... The black ink clad and bright, in some sort of odd way, like him, June notes.

She leans down, digging through the hymns, each one different from the next. Deriving from Beethoven to Bach. Each a comparison to her great detective in their own right, difficult and rough around the edges but played out smoothly the more you listened and keyed in on the chantey balled.

Her slim fingers came to a stop and her eyes widened with none too little grace, a white parchment with something dubiously unbelievable, delving into her vision with the grace of pitch damp, written out with the utmost solicitous merit she had ever seen.

It read-

 _ **June**_

So simple, so stern, and everything she thought nonviable. He had written a song for her? About her maybe? She didn't know, but she already knew she wanted to hear it, hear it play out and ring through her ears. She wasn't anywhere near the perfectionist of a violinist, that much was obvious, and she was sure she'd softly crumble away if she didn't figure it out soon.

She was about to search if there were any playing violinists near her area, thumb pausing over the search button of her mobile and she sighed. She didn't want to know what it sounded like she concluded abruptly. She didn't need to. It was made for her, yes, but it wasn't hers to play.

It wasn't hers to rip open, stare at with large wandering eyes and hope for the best. She didn't want to hear another play his song. A song he took time to place on paper with the studded black ink.

A song that he wrote for her.

It was his song, and just like her not wanting others to touch his instrument of parallel stress and thought; she didn't want anyone even trying to play the ballad except for him. She didn't want to hear the twist of tight strings and melodic frustration unless it was his fingers ghosting over it.

Even if that meant she'd never hear it.

Leaving her spot she sets the papers back in an organized fashion, casing the violin as she does this and leaves the flat. She'd almost forgot she needed sleep to function…that is if she'd actually get any tonight.

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Thank you for all the support and reading! All feedback is welcome.


	5. A Shattering Consequence

So, I totally forgot to mention why June is Scottish. I thought I'd add my own little twist to the table, with John being British and all. I just thought I'd give June something else to keep her apart from John. Hope you guys enjoy! And thank you for all the follows and favorites, I was surprised! Truly it means a lot and gives me great motivation!

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock nor any previously own titles.

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It's abnormally warm, the sun glaring down on June with a satisfying distrust and lustering radiance. Today was a bad day to wear one of her jumpers, she thinks regretfully, rueful to the imagination of wearing something with less fabric. She arches her sleeves up, entering the small café that only seconds ago stood around the corner.

Mocha, to be specific, the areal brick building small and round. Wafting in the smell of coffee beans and various saccharine pastries, all laced with a minimum of sugar or honey. There's a delicate melody in the air, drifting through the small crème walls and June stands awkwardly near the entrance. Fingers tight on the arms of her purse, she inches in, the further she enters the stronger the smell.

She takes the time to look at it all, with everything bundled up into such a tight space, she can't help but grow distracted. The longer she stood the stronger the hint of marshmallow she had yet to find became apparent.

The walls were all filled to the brim, oil paintings from way back when, quotes on every other wall that were 'inspirational', pastel chalkings of a coffee cup on every corner and large clocks here and there. Leaving the slightest bit of imagination decimated.

Of all places Lestrade wanted to meet up, he chose here, a small little café with cupcakes for clocks and walls that smelt like chocolate. She didn't blame him, if she were to be honest, it was an appealing center for talks.

But she didn't take Lestrade for the type of person to come here, what so ever, so you could imagine the surprise when she found him actually waiting for her, checking his phone on and off with a bite to the lip. He didn't exactly look skittish, but there was an ill placement in the way he sat. Waiting for her.

Unhurried, she stalked her way over, sitting across from him in the corner booth he had chosen. He makes eye contact with her, gawking with a dumbfound expression pasting his slowly aging face. She coughed a bit, a bit too unpleasant for her, the way he's staring. He went to open his mouth, but closed it when he thought through about what he was going to say; as if he had she'd slap him.

It's a long time before the two speak, June finally getting weary of the game they were both playing, parted her lips and spoke up. "What'd you want to talk about?" Her voice is soft, tangible, a courteous silk walkway he hasn't heard in so long and he feels his stomach somehow grow emptier without having to go to the bathroom and get rid of its contents.

He brackets his nose with his forefinger and thumb before speaking up, but can't seem to draw the words a nice little path. He had called her here to see how she was doing. Greg hadn't seen her in the last five months, not one pop in or peep to let him know that she was still breathing. She hadn't let him know whether she was alright or not, and he knows he has no right to such knowledge, but he was still concerned with an amity of a dangerously large quantity of overwhelming care. A care he obviously couldn't control, considering his position now, with an annoyed June in front of him.

Just from looking at her, you'd never guessed her best friend had only died just a few months ago. But knowing June, she was never one to show her emotion with great strength, you learn to do that after eight years in a war. Unless she was with Sherlock. At least, not as vibrantly, because when you're with Sherlock Holmes he pushes you to the edge of a colorful personality. You have to keep up.

He just wanted to see how she was doing, after getting to know the woman; he'd grown attached despite himself. A loyal to the bone, conservative, exhilaratingly beautiful woman. Not only that but a doctor, soldier and as funny as it was a blogger. It was funnier when you knew she only stood at five foot three.

The small Scottish woman boisterous when given the right mood, and frankly he was surprised she wasn't married yet, but at the same time it made sense. Everyone thought she and Sherlock were shagging on occasion, though she regularly objected the idea. Scowling at the ones who accused her of such a thing.

Brows knit tight and arms crossed with a pension quivering in her tiny little form, a passionate wroth easing off of her. Which is what made her entertaining to watch with the great Sherlock Holmes, while he was hardly interested in others feelings, June had quiet the mouth on her.

In fact they had a swear jar back at the yard for her, in which she had resigned quickly enough, convincing the lot of them that if she has a jar for swearing Sherlock gets one for being an "inconsiderate ass". Her words exactly.

It was fun to watch the two try to control their impulsive reactions to unnatural situations. He almost smiles at the thought. Those two were close. No wonder why everyone thought what they thought. They lived in the same flat for crying out loud, and Sherlock never denied their accusations much to June's livid retorts at his snubbing disregard to the problem.

He's blast from his thoughts, June's constant tapping on the hard wood table gracing him with her devoted attention, obvious impatience creasing her frame and he finally spots the difference in her.

She'd grown unnaturally angry now, the irritation rooting seeds in her frown, one of the many sorts of transformation you go through when one of your loved ones die. Normally, she would have waited him off, let him drift off for as long as he needed, but here she was leaning on her palm with an uninviting snarl protesting her lips.

He'd never seen her like this. Well, actually he had once, but that was once. Well, he didn't see what happened, but when he had heard she head-butted, let him repeat head-butted his chief superintendent on the preexisting fact of his choice of words about Sherlock, that was the day he swore to never anger her.

Nor after the fact that he had learned she was the one who had shot the cabby, after knowing her for a full twenty four hours, he had admitted to himself that she was quiet scary for such a tiny woman. He had to say, he was stunned that after only knowing Sherlock for such a short amount time, she had killed a man for him.

He never confronted the two on it, wanting to avoid court work; he already had enough work as it was, though he was positive that Sherlock knew he knew. How couldn't he have? The man was amazing. Talented and courageous, along with loud and rude, but both were out there in the wind, just enough to grab the likes of June Watson. Enough to grab just about anyone in London, but not enough to keep them around like June had.

He licks his drying lips, leaning back into the pleated cushion behind him. "I just wanted to see how you were doing." He puts all a little too fast, but not fast enough, and it's confusing enough to get him to arch a brow at his own comment. Her dark and narrow attitude lights up and she sinks into the seat.

"Oh…I'm fine." She adds, her tone far from convincing, and even she can hear it. Sure, she was getting better, the death not being as fresh, but enough to push her out of the comfort of her boundaries. Like just now, she had been terrible to a man who just wanted to check up on her because she had failed to let him know she was alright.

But that would have been lying. She wasn't alright, but she didn't want to worry the man. He already felt at fault for Sherlock's death, even if he didn't let on that he felt such a guilting pattern, she could see it in the way he looked to the wall for answers, the chocolate in his hues dubbing insecurity as a whole.

They both got excessively quiet and the tune playing in the background, the local radio, sounded as if it were thundering. Astounding, how silent two people could get when there was a mutual distaste in past afflictions.

"Well…" Lestrade puts abruptly, breaking their trance of never ending perking tranquility, her eyes flash to him and he suddenly feels as if he's been put on the spot. "Do you want something while you're here?" She scurries her attention to the side, her sights on the tea they had shown off for advertisement, something she hadn't touched for four months. Lestrade lets out a soft snicker.

June eyes him for a moment, watching as he gets up and heads to the counter to order whatever he, was well, laughing at her for. Or at least that's what she gathered from his sudden absence. She had hoped he was advising for tea, coffee wasn't exactly her go to right now.

The time went by with posthaste, Lestrade settling down before her with the slightest of disgruntled change in shift. He scoots a large ceramic tea cup, steam rising and biting at the air with haste, over to her. June thanks him, taking a sip, soothing her sore throat, the sting subsiding momentarily.

He takes a bite of the muffin he had chosen over a cuppa, savoring the taste with a soft hum. She'd have to pay him back for the drink, it was nice of him, especially after her less than chivalrous attitude towards his incoming worry with how she was getting along.

"So…How's, uhm…" June didn't know what to say. She was going to ask how the rest of the Scotland Yard was doing, but she couldn't care less about a few of them, the few being Anderson and Donavan, and wanted to correct her statement that had been cut short. Lestrade store at her, far from ferociously befuddled as she had feared, but just slightly confused. She shrugs off the remark and takes another sympathizing sip.

June sighs morosely, leaning forward as to support her now splinting shoulder blades. The glaze on the eggshell cup staring at her blankly and she huffs. These pains had been getting worse, and she had no other sign to their indifference other than post dramatic stress, in other words it was getting worse. And she hated that. She despised it.

Lestrade plucks another piece of the muffin into his mouth, eyes narrowing as she grunts. "June, are you alright?" She looks up at him, nods slowly, painfully so and arches her back. A loud pop is heard and she heaves out, cradling her left shoulder with her hand.

"Fine." Her tone brassy, like scarping metal, but he keeps that to himself.

Lestrade nods, unconvinced, showing that she should be fully aware that he doesn't believe her. "Alright…Do you need a ride to…"she gawks up at him and shakes her head.

"No, I can take a cabby." He gives her a disconcerting glower, its soft, but not in a comforting way.

"I insist." He stands up, having already finished his muffin, and she doesn't know how to respond to that politely. She knew he was just trying to be nice, trying to help, but she didn't need it. Shew was perfectly fine with taking a cabby; something about the police car threw her off. She narrows her own eyes at the thought.

Sherlock had rubbed off on her in all the wrong ways, they had yet to bother her, and she doesn't know if that's good or bad. There was nothing wrong in taking a ride from a cop. But for Sherlock, it was an ordeal he refused with the back side of his hand. She supposed it was because of all the drug busts he'd been through, always in the back of a vehicle with chain around his wrist, and that made plenty sense.

She wouldn't want to get a ride from something that gave her a negative feel, clamping up on her on the inside and have her turned into a slippery, distasteful oil. That was hardly ideal. Lestrade is waiting for a response, legs stiff and shoulders back, like the respectful man he is.

And she's curious now, looking at him, a man who had claimed to have not entirely trust Sherlock, nor like him. Yet he always checked in on the man, like he had been through something like it, with the drugs and all.

She'd never been there when Sherlock had his addictions, but Lestrade said it had been bad. And she fully understands the requirements of looking up a drug addict every once in a while, but he did it an awful lot. Her mind strays, her mouth following and before she can stop herself she asks something that's been pending for some time but never had the gusto to actually speak up.

"Why did you care?" Lestrade is taken by it, but not to the point of understanding, for he was in a glass case of befuddlement and she realized she hadn't finished her question. "I mean…his addiction. Any other cop, or I guess detective would have shrugged it off." She adds, a bit flustered that she had spoken so outwardly. "Even after he claimed he was clean." She quips, settling further into the seat.

Lestrade seems to breathe in the question, the sage of query sucking him in and he sighs out dolefully. "Tell you what, you let me hitch you a ride back to wherever, and I tell you?" she repeats the offer in her head before nodding, taking her purse in arm and follows him out.

The sun greets her with its casual flare and she wishes that today, for once, it was cloudy. She had gotten so used to the coral like weather, she was in favor of it. Greatly so, she was actually glaring at the sun, like it had done her wrong personally.

It's the beeping of his car that grates her attention up front, he opens the passenger side for her and she hops in. With a slam and click he's already on the other side, plugging his keys in and the car growling through the air with a biolistic rhythm.

Pulling the seat belt across her chest she turns to him. "So?" She voices expectantly and he gives her a soft smile. Like he had just accomplished something and she doesn't understand the meaning.

"I had a brother." He claims, slowly actually, he can feel her glossy hazel hues rimming over his figure as he speaks, intently so. She focuses on the word had, unsure if she should have asked in the first place. He pulls out of the parking lot, focused, but not enough for it to make a convincing argument. "Where we going?"

"Weymouth Street, 245 south." He nods, making a left turn. She doesn't know if she should push, curiosity getting the better of her, but she keeps her mouth shut either way.

"Anyways, I had a brother. Nice guy, could be a bit of a wanker at times, but I loved him." He gives her a smirk, but it almost looks broken and she instantly knows she's gone too far, for once it's her shoving about and not the consulting detective. Sure, he was willingly telling her, but only because she had refused to let him give her a ride. "He had a drug addiction, meth and crack cocaine." The loose body on his volume is lowly letting up, the chocolate melting around the iris of his eyes.

She has a feeling of where the story is going, and doesn't want to hear it. She doesn't want Lestrade to reimagine something…something gruesome. It's horrid, the imagery that is brought to bay by just bringing up a word, a single conjunction of intervals that could break a man.

"He'd been on them for some time. Three years." The sun glares at her again and she feels that she deserves it, letting it cascade over her now lumped over form. "When he went broke, I finally said enough was enough and made him go to a rehabilitation center." His words slither out, like drawing poison from an old, scabbed over wound.

She winces at the waver in his voice. She really just wants him to stop, wants him to discontinue the torment he was bringing upon himself, she almost tells him to, but he interrupts her before she can even part her lips.

"After some time, he'd said he was clean, I believed him." They're almost to her place, and she wishes he'd speed up, wishes he'd stop himself before he picked the scab clean off, like a band-aid. But it wouldn't end swiftly, like the sting after ripping a bandage off, no. It would stick to him for some time and it was obvious he was still sore over the thought. "A week later and we found him dead, hugging that damned…" He huffs as he cuts himself off, unable to go any further, laughing a bit in remorse.

He pulls up to her flat and its quiet, like in the café, except this time she's silent for him and his melancholy, not the other way around. He doesn't look at her, eyes avoiding all contact and he seems to be reliving the series of events without pause.

Breaching her comfort zone, as well as his, places a hand on his arm breaking his chasm. She's rendering herself useless when all he does is jump and she picks on an occurring thought to just hug him. Because she knows how it feels to lose one close to you and have it relive out in front of you no matter the display, until the end of time, holding you back from living your life. But she doesn't know if he'd consider that inappropriate, she doesn't even know if she considers it inappropriate.

She's ill-footed, not sure where her boundaries stand between the two. She didn't even know if she should consider him a friend or not, the only link between the two of them now dead. Severed with a snip, sharp blades breaking the thread that held everything together, the thread once stable now loosely undone without their consulting detective to piece it together, hold both ends of the string side by side.

"I'm…I'm so sorry." June lurched forward, the dismal that was kept captive in her throat slid out before she had time to catch it. Not that it would have been good to have done so, the sympathy and empathy portrayed in her voice held too much importance as of right now. He doesn't look at her, like he's thinking something through, and a snippet of words come out.

"Sherlock reminded me of him, my brother, subtract the brainy attributes the Holmes happen to have." He speaks slowly, contracting his voice in and out like he was losing the war he was fighting inside his head, a war he'd never been able to win. "The drug addiction, it was like he was taking me back in time, except this time I could actually save him." June sinks, she feels as if she's been ripped open and lied to waste with all the horrors he's been put through.

He ogles her at some point, eyes sorrowed and empty, devoid of any other emotion than forlorn. Woodenly, he shifts in his seat, his eyes almost narrowing her down to a pinpoint, keeping her still, as if he were examining her as a whole. Yet was somehow dividing her up in chunks, like he'd find some part of her he'd never seen before, something he could use.

"June…" He leans back, resting a palm on his cheek. He can see the incertitude lace her orbs with an innocence he hasn't seen since he was a kid. "You have no idea what affect you had on that man." He states, a matter of fact, but still fit in small package of crestfallen amplitude.

Her face twists at the words, sparking up a flame of despair and inconsiderate tolerance that raided her shrinking form. She steels her eyes, forcing them to look anywhere than the man in front of her. Not because he'd messed up, his words gone awry, but because she was afraid she might break in front of him. Those words, that simple sentence was dangling her over the cliff of cobalt waves. It unexpected, because she was unaware of her effect on the man, a man that she had loved and he had left her.

Only days ago had she stopped crying, halted the pretesting quakes that shook her body as she sheltered herself in a bottle of sorrowful hate, one that happened to be bullet-proof, one that was evading any sort of sound control.

The sting in the back of her eyes, she can feel it warming up, ready to slip past her barriers, the ones she's taken five months to build. A sore, heart-wrenching, shattering five months. June knew, knew, she couldn't possibly cry in front of Lestrade. Not right now, not after she had just confirmed she was fine.

She didn't want to make herself a liar, or at least show herself as one. And it's now that she realizes, that over these past months, she has made little progress in healing herself, easily breaking and caving in like it were a test, as if she were timed and it was bad. She keeps distancing herself from people, ones who obviously care, and that isn't anyway to sew the wounds that have tangled around her neck and began to slowly dry her lungs as the air in her body is whisked away from her, rubbing her skin raw with an instinctive burn. The oncoming of emotions thrust her forward and she chokes out a so, unable to hold it in, it being a long time coming.

She makes a grab for her neck, holding it with the blunt of her nails and Lestrade's overwhelming presence is around her. Arms keeping her up as she breathes in and out the sobs in her chest, her abdomen tightly shriveled into something she couldn't understand anymore. She had thought, if given enough time, she'd be able to control it.

And she was so close, getting there, that's what she told herself. But right now, in this instance she can see that lie had only grown stronger, because she believed she was finally over it. His death just a battle wound, like the bullet that had made a masterpiece on her shoulder, a scar that sat on her flesh until the end of her days.

There to remind her how she messed up, what happened, how she could have fixed it, how she could have protested and lived on with her life with a smile on her face. No mistakes, no problems, it equals a happy life. One that just wasn't cut out for her.

Lestrade is rubbing her back, trying his best to comfort her, but it only regards her with the swinging of that violin, stuck in her head, eyes red and convulsing glum desperately clutching at her heart, to rid her of everything that makes her human, keep her still and watch her drown in her own sad sighed story.

A mantra for the ages, a poem to live on and warn others to keep their distance from the people out there, that the warmth that you receive isn't anywhere worth the throbbing torture that sits in you, burying your soul into a canvas you can never release yourself from, stained in blue's, blacks and reds. Love isn't worth being given to anything that can be touched by death.

She's shaking now, Lestrade can feel the minute long shudders that seem to be rolling the world around her head, and the one thing that comes to mind other than him, is the gun in her top right drawer or even a necklace of rope that sings around her neck, paling her down to a nothing. June buries her head into the crevice of his neck and shoulder and wants to shout, because she didn't want that, not in her head, but it all seemed the best way to find her release.

To leave this God-awful world, be done with it, ridden of the tragic and unfortunate. A clean space under her stone of life, such a useless way to tell one from another. It's the shame that widows her down to a dull flat edge, already breaking in front of another and she can't stop. It keeps coming out, the bristle in her shoulders and the tremor in her blood, the wavering in each disastrous wail she attempts to keep lodged in her mouth, teeth held together; tightly clamped in the hopes it'd stop the oncoming storm she was about to bring in this very car.

Lestrade only holds her, because what else can he do? He's never seen her like this before, always the brave little soldier, holding her breath and counting to ten before opening her mouth and speaking. That is, when she wasn't angry or extremely excited, then you'd get an earful.

Look at the world, still turning as millions fall to their feet and give up, losing all sense of gravity in their lives as it's ripped away from them brutally. Scratching at their eyes, digging at their skin, numb to the pain but still do it in the aspiration that they feel it someday. That it'll hurt less than what they feel now, something to bleach out the agony that squanders them into the ground, six feet under.

You see, the day a person decides to take their life, whether they be ill or not, it doesn't only kill one, but two. Lestrade never really understood the saying, even after his brother, but now he was getting a front row seat to it.

Sherlock had killed June and he'd never known he'd done it. She was a wilting flower, slowly losing all color and turning to ash, feathery and soft but gone. Her existence was just a parallel to trying but failing. Something just bearable enough, something that had become light enough for the wind to sweep aside and decide she's not important enough to carry on through.

Because when you meet someone, that one person that connects you to the world it changes you, in ways one wouldn't be able to possibly understand or believe. They become someone different, someone better and new and when that person is taken away from you, what do you become then? What's left other than broken fragments scattered across the world, flung across the night sky for all to admire?

He had seen the way they helped each other, both of them getting better. Sherlock more than June, he says that because he didn't exactly know her long enough before the change to understand the shift. But he had with Sherlock. And now…now June was a machine.

A robot, a mechanic being with only three simple tasks.

1\. Sleep

2\. Eat

3\. Work

It repeats, over and over until the world sinks its bitter teeth in and takes the rest from her. That little schedule that she now held so dearly, because it gave her something to do, desperate enough to actually hold onto it. During the day, whether the sun be shining or the cold murk the sky with grey tones of aggravation and moody consonance she acted like she was fine. She had just demonstrated that to Lestrade.

So well in fact, she was sure she fooled him, even if he did have his doubts.

But at night, she walked a tight rope as the stars sung to her in their silent melodies, the muzzling stillness eating away at her, and the tranquility laughs at her when she thinks in anguished belief that she heard a soft string of courted violin.

In what kept her sanity was now slipping through her, like sand does its fingers, the way her heart shatters its simply asking not when she's going to hurt herself but how. How is she going to mangle something so sturdy? How is she going to crush her body in two and leave the rest of her for them to find? Is she going to use a terrible amount of ruddy rope or a silver swept bullet, ending it quickly but leaving a mess?

She bites down on her thumb as she brings it around Lestrade, the sanity in which she had withheld was plundering to the ground like her dear Sherlock, with a splat she can almost hear it erase itself from her and she's hoisting a breath into existence, like she was finally able to breathe again.

She listens to the silence, trying to find him, not to disturb it. But she can't, the brilliant, the bright and the mad all but gone and she's left to pick up the pieces. She's reaching for a falling man, one who has already hit the ground, quaking the stars above him, even if he didn't know they shined for him.

It isn't silent anymore, the melody in her head there, the rough strings as his finger ghost them over and she's screaming inside. The louder the gets the quicker she falls, and she's falling with him at a speed she thought impossible, her hearts pace quickens and she has to duck fingers into Lestrades back for application.

The tune pitches higher at that finale, rallying her to the center stage, where she puts on her costume, the fake bright yellow smile cruising her face as it does her heart and a sudden rage tugs her to the left, the tempo fast and loud, burning her throat and ringing her ears. She trips, falls, smashes into the ground with a tumble that leaves her breathless.

And then just…silence…numbness and all she can do is pull back from Lestrade, wiping her cheeks she gives him a false smile, like always.

"Thank you…thank you for the ride." She contorts and Lestrade is staring at her like he just found something dead on the inside. Her stare indefinitely cold and he tries to find what should be left of her in there, but not even a fragment withstood her fall. "I'll call you later…I just—I just need to rest." He isn't sure about it, letting her leave after such a scene, but like the foolish man he is he lets her leave the safety of his supervision and June heads to her flat.

There, in her head, a thousand ways to bring herself down in a course response of self-loathing. She enters the reasonably sized flat, it all looks empty to her, small and discharged of him. She bumbles around the room, looking for a sign to stop her and there is none. So she leaves the sitting area and stumbles to her room. The stairs, even for her are a climb and she loses her breath, falling to her knees in defeat with a whimper.

She didn't know how to live anymore. She was a defect, like she had told herself after leaving the sands of blood, a defect that could not possibly be real anymore. She was nothing, an existence once privy in the eyes of men but now just a stag waiting to be put out of its misery.

The agony she felt, the uprising in her chest and the coil indentured in her abdomen and wrapped around her spin spoke the volumes she couldn't even breathe, something she'd never be able to fathom. She needed a release, something to break her just a little, something to tie her up and spin around, something keep her colored and bright when she couldn't be for the people she loved.

She wanted a release. She wanted to be let go of, like he had, fall and shatter into a million pieces and feel if she can somehow come into reach with him as she does this. Somehow bring him to life with the vibrancy she knew he held deep inside, sharp needles barricading it in as he plunges to the ground in a fit of black and blue and she thinks just how ironic and charming it had to be to be dressed in her battle wounds.

She forces herself up the stairs and turns the hallway lights on just in case he comes back, just in case; she's positive she's a quivering mess, eyes stained crimson with the fatality it brought about her useless form. She thinks about tonight, how it will be a bitter oblivion that burns her into the cotton of her blankets and she realizes he won't come back, that the heat she needed to save him, that fire that was supposed to push her would burn her alive. And she can't risk it.

She _needed_ an end to it.

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	6. The Day She'd Except The Inevitable

**Warning!** This chapter has some graphic scenes. There is a suicide attempt, please do not read the first part of this chapter if that is in anyway triggering to you!

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock nor any of it's previous titles.

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June rushes to her room, nothing is available to her sight any longer, all whites and blacks turned to grey, even that god awful blue in her sitting room nothing but a concept. She scratches at her cheeks, despising the residue the water left in its wake and she nearly screams. This all feels like a nightmare and they're times when she's not sure if this life is some sort of terrifying night terror that managed to slip through her defenses or if this is a raucous geared sorrow that had left its mark on her reality.

Either way, she wanted it to end, she needed it to end. She couldn't stand the pain anymore, it was the only out she saw possible, saw as exceptional. She never thought she'd be the one to think of this sort of ending as an out, as a blessing, as a choice.

Even when he had first left it was never a choice, no matter how drenched she was in the aftermath of his storm. But now, now she was walking that tightrope, but unlike most nights where she tries to balance and keep up the good work she wants to drop.

She wants to lose that costly balance, to feel the wind brush through her hair and embrace the ever growing ground as it becomes her new destination. She was done flying. So here she was now, rummaging through her drawers but of all the goddamned things she loses, it's her gun. She swore it was there, in her right hand drawer, but it was nowhere to be found.

She feels as if she's losing it, her grip on reality, nothing but a dream and that horrendous thought occurs. What if this, all of it, really is a dream, a horrible nightmare that she'll wake up from with a sweat so thick it clings to her bed and a tremor so vicious she's shaking to her side.

What if she's still in 221b, letting the dark shadows envelop her in a cold embrace, and that sudden but expected court of strings begin to coax her back to a calm she hasn't had in what felt like five months.

She expects that she'd jump from out of her bed, damn the shake in her leg and the traitorous quiver in her hand. June would be down in that sitting room, faster than light, holding Sherlock like he had just _died_.

But she doesn't.

She doesn't wake up, she doesn't listen to his melody before recklessly leaving her room just to breathe him in, just to make sure he's there; _still_ there. Because she can't. This isn't a dream, it was a nightmare yes, but far from a vivid state that the mind creates just to plague her. And for once she's angry this can't be her night terror, that it isn't the one thing that wakes her up with wide eyes and the constant drumming in her chest.

Junes throwing her clothes out now, because she swore it was in there, the black stain in her drawer should be there. But it isn't, and it's when she empties the small containment she realizes someone must have taken it.

Someone must have come in here and taken it.

She swerved on her feet, watching the door to her bedroom, her heart crying in defeat. Who'd taken it? Who'd stolen her salvation? She hardly had the patience to wonder why, where they were, because if the person who had taken the gun had intentions on hurting her, she'd let it happen with open arms.

But she finds no sign that someone is in her flat, not a pip, not a squeak, because no one is. She feels at a loss and leaves her room, refusing to just let it down like that, she needed her release, a divide. With a growl on her lips she frowns, refusing to believe that she'd just sit down and let the pain, that overwhelming pain eat her alive while she did nothing.

Nauseous, she nearly falls down her stairs in the middle of her hysterics, breathing heavily she leads herself to the kitchen. She had some medicine, on the counter between the fridge and microwave. Lunesta, to be exact, the little white container came into view and a wave of relief shanked the flat of her back.

Taking it by the cap she twisted it open, with none of the tiny little pills there to greet her; an apoplectic fume raged over her. Throwing the bottle across the room it hit the wall with a discordant pop. Only rapid streams of fire ran its course down her face when she finally huffed out in agonizing wroth, her hands fisting convulsively. How in the hell was the bottle empty? She hadn't used any of that specific medication for almost a month.

Stretching her fingers out they flew to her hair in agitation, running through the strands with barely enough strain to keep her standing. Dropping both arms she leans against the counter, out of air, out of thoughts, out of remedies. A loosely threaded pinch grabbed at her abdomen and she burrowed her head between her now folded arms.

Sobs wracked her body, her shoulders shaking and her legs shifting in with ailing strength. Her chest felt as if it had fallen from grace, her body heavier than it had been in weeks, months even, lead keeping her hung. Her heart will metastasize, she can feel it burning her, setting a flame within her lungs and smoking out her throat. At this point she feels as if she's an ingrown life, something that doctors such as her could just cut away, get her over with.

With one last weeping sob she sucks in a breath, holding her stomach, her chest, whatever she think's will help she heads back to her room. Out of breath, exhausted, she falls to her bed. Curling into the corner she wraps the blankets she hosted at night around herself. It's only her head that's left out, the cold air brushing the turn of her cheeks and the tip of her nose, drying her lips and tears alike.

The thought of taking her life was slowly drifting, the current pulling it back, but soon it would all come forth. Like any current to a great ocean, it pulled back and swept forth. Wreaking havoc both ways.

Sure, she was calming down now, but soon that calm would leave and there'd be another storm to tear her down. Her turmoil came in waves and today she had been drowning, like the sea shells lied to waste on the sand. Just waiting for another rush of that flesh freezing liquid to rise her up, let frantic distraught take its place.

But right now, the wave was subsiding, leaving her to rest in peace. She heaves, holding the air as it comes in with a bitter strike, forcing it back out in the hopes she could breathe without the disadvantage of it tormenting her. Drying her lungs, exhausting her of all life, hallowing her out to a pit of nothing.

A pit that couldn't be filled, whether she wanted it to or not. That hole buried her, a self-made ditch of discomfort, but that sensation was never enough, it never filling the cavity in her chest. So she lied there, letting it grow larger by the second, letting it become her.

And as she lets it become what she once was, as she lets it grow inside her, accustomed to her skin with fraudulent tendencies she realizes she likes it better this way. All the churning in her gut now unavailable for attention, the agony that had rooted her heart like a virus grows dull. Like the blunt of the knife it cuts slowly, but the pain isn't anywhere near the swift injustice the sharp counterpart brings to the table.

Quick and terrible, it cuts deeper but stops short with unscrupulous leavings. Her finger nails dig into the blanket around her, her legs hiking up as if it would help null the transcript the torment had decided to finally take up in reading.

That numb, dull blade sought her out, sliding quickly but not hard enough to draw the proverbial blood. She shuts her eyes tightly, holding back the urge to cry once more and shoves her face into the sheets of her bed.

She hates how it doesn't smell like him, despises it, boils in the agitation that this wasn't his spice, his citrus, his tint of tobacco. But she suffers the strawberry; lets the vanilla waft into her nose and hold her under.

Everything's black now and her breathing sooths into a mellow heat. The void welcomes her, holds her captive and all she can do is except it.

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Taking a deep breath she hummed, the crisp spring air filling her lungs with gratification. Last week was a horror, she knew all too well; the endless debate on whether or not her existence was a tragedy pushed just a little too far for she was just barely holding that tight balance of hers. Swaying back and forth between the both before subconsciously she ended up with the second one. Keeping herself alive, alive enough to breathe in this air, for here she was now doing so, standing atop a field of death.

Gravestones plastered against the green, life hovering over all the death that surrounded her. The sorrow was all but a background now, though, subtly ghosting over her shoulder and leaning against her back, whispering in her ear just how heartbroken she truly was. That she should take action on it, let it out with a melancholy so desperate, so loud and bold that she'd actually receive the support she direly needed.

Crossing her arms with a strict dependency she led herself down the over grown path, weeds and flowers alike reaching each and every grave. Like they had a right to it, a lease that allowed the floral and weed so close to cold, barren stone with hatched in names.

Something so full of life, full of beauty, permitted to host brushes leaned upon stones of expiry. She grazed attention on one of the memorials, reading the name of a dead child, not even a month old. There's a picture on the front of it, a tiny hand holding onto the finger of a mother, as if that were its salvation. Her heart sinks and she has to stop, she has to let that soak in, because she knew that must've been hell for the parents.

Losing something so dear, something so new and young all too quickly was a sentence to your own death. Hesitantly, she pulls her bag up, peering in and finding the Calla Lilies. Still fresh, beautiful and alive, reaching in she takes out about five.

Keeping the stems in place she reached into her bag once more, certain there was some loose ribbon in there from her work place. A kid had given it to her for luck, and apparently for protection against the goblins that take your candy at night. Bringing it to the five strands she had pulled from the bunch she tied a bow around the Calla Lilies.

Setting the coupled lilies next to the grave she sighed. Maybe the ribbon would protect the little girl even after death? A frown creasing her lips subconsciously she turns from the small stone and leads herself towards Sherlock's, the memorial coming into view. June grips the handles of her bag tightly, knuckles brash in white.

She didn't know what she'd do once she stood above him, but she was going to; it had been much too long since she had visited his resting place. The last time being with Ms. Hudson. She pouts at the thought, she hadn't kept in contact with the nice landlady like she had promised her.

Every time she saw her number come up on her phone, it hurt, she sat in pain and it just got harder to pick it up every blurted ring that came into the world. Even texts she had avoided, refusing to come face to face with someone she used to live around.

Someone she and Sherlock both adored. They're lovely, caring, considerate landlady, Ms. Hudson. Who was most certainly not they're house keeper. She almost smiles at the memory, Ms. Hudson always declining that title yet she held it so well.

She stops in front of it, the sleek black shading over the installed carving of his name and she feels an abrupt change in her paced breathing. Her lungs turned dry and that irreversible sting that sat behind her eyes attacked. She wanted to back out, go back to her flat and pretend she was over it all, over everything that had happened.

Over a dead man. A dead man that had changed her for good, brought meaning to her boring life, kept her going without pause. Exhilaration is what he emitted, excitement is what he brought to the table, a dark sense of assessment that would surprise her at times. That would throw her off and keep her down on the ground until she'd surrender.

A man who used danger as a benefactor of distraction in comparison to getting high. He kept her on her feet, kept her excited, awake at night in thought of what might happen the next day. When she was with him she felt alive, for once she felt as if she was important, apart of something. Something that didn't hurt others, something that didn't leave the blood on her hands.

Not like war had, and not like the theoretical blood that stained her fingers after all the damage she had inflicted on her family. He meant something, his name was practically already shining in lights, a spotlight on him as he moved beyond comprehension. His sense of calm anything but calm. All thoughts, theories, they never let him be. Nagging him into submission, forcing him on both knees until he came up with some way to entertain that large functioning brain of his, to keep him busy unless he wished to follow back into an old addiction he's been through before.

He was something else, something new, something she had never encountered before and was hoping to keep. She wanted to him to stay, stay with her as long as possible, because whether she wanted to believe it or not she was in love with him. Or had been, considering he's no longer with her, no longer there to irritate her to no end.

She wanted to be over it all, over everything he had brought into her life, everything he had made her feel and see, everything she had experienced with him. She wanted it to just disappear, because then maybe she'd feel better. Maybe she wouldn't want to leave this world, leave this existence all because he had left her.

She wanted to be over this dead man.

Leaning down she sets the flowers next to his name, lying them flat on the ground with regret. She should've got the roses that had been in that pot, but it just didn't seem worth it. He was worth more than just two roses, that were horribly overpriced she might add.

Standing back she folds her arms and lets what silence she had ignored in her train of thought wrap around her, keep her steady as she store the stone down with an almost glare. She didn't want to say she was angry with him, but she felt as if she might be.

Why?

She didn't know, there was no excusable reason to be angry with a man who wasn't here for a response. Theories, a hypothesis wrapped around her head and kept nudging her forward.

She guessed it was because he left her, alone, left her to grieve, but more than anything was how he ended it. How she ended it. And suddenly, in a rush all rage is pointed towards her. Her last words to him. The last thing she said to his face and she wants to scream, finding that she must've hurt him greatly.

Ms. Hudson had been sent to the hospital, had been shot, or at least she thought she had been. Regardless, he had refused to see her, to go with June and check up on her. And so high on obtuse fury she snapped. Calling him a machine. And she aches.

That look he had given her, something so strange, so odd that she ignored it. He appeared hurt, like she had just snapped him in two with a smile. Even so he responds with how alone he was, with how it protected him, spite in his baritone, spitting it out as if to get back at her. And June being June snapped once more, giving him a flick on the wrist from where she stood, leaving him to think of his actions, of what he had said, of what he had just accomplished. A gold medal on being an inconsiderate asshole who she greatly cared for, therefore she had to yell at him, put sense into him. But that didn't make it right.

It's too late to stop the tears that leave, drenching her cheeks in waves of acid. No, friends are what protect you...

Dawning on the thought she scoffs, she was his friend and how much did that help? It pushed him off that roof, she wasn't there to catch him when he inevitably fell. She was always there to catch him, when he thought he was falling she always made sure that she made it just in time to hold him still, to keep him flying.

That permanent destination not a choice, she wouldn't allow it. And now she had, she wasn't in time to catch him. Always scrambling for purchase and subsequently failing when he'd topple over, a breach of propensity. And he had fallen, slipped right through her fingers.

She always leaned, waned on the substantial memory of being there, keeping him up, holding him steady even as the east wind blew and attempted to knock him down. She sucks in a sob, because she had let him down, she wasn't there to catch him right before he hit the ground as always, and now here she was. Standing on top of him, he had already hit the ground, and now he was under it.

Folding her arms as if to hug herself she sighs, the darkening clouds rolling hills over her head, a drop of what felt like water lands on her exposed wrist. A few more leave the sky and soon it's pouring. June still doesn't move, though she should, she doesn't. The least she could do was keep him dry.

Reaching into her bag she pulled out her miniature umbrella. A present from Ms. Hudson last year, saying how June would catch a cold if she didn't start using one. Unwrapping it from its containment she slid it open, the now large coop covered her body almost entirely. Keeping the rain from her stature. Moving from her spot she slants the umbrella over his headstone.

Digging the handle into the ground in the hopes that it would stay in place if there was to be heavy gusts of wind soon. Now vulnerable to the cold and soggy rain she goes back to hugging herself, adjusting the straps of her back to stay up on her shoulder. She was actually happy that it was raining, it fit the mood and managed to hide her tears.

She gives a nod to 'Sherlock' before leaving. She had work in two hours and drive from where she stood was almost three. She'd be a little late, but it'd be the first time, so she doubted she's get in trouble.

She'd be fine…fine? She needed to define the word fine, because she sure didn't feel like it, of course she wasn't exactly using to the word in that context. But it still applied, with how she felt as of right now, falling just like the rain. With a sigh she leads herself over to the taxi she had paid extra to stay, hopping in and embracing the heat that came with it.

"Where to?" The cabby speaks up.

June flashes a fake smile, one believable enough for him not to take offense to. "Great Ormond Street hospital." He nods and pulls away from the graveyard. She takes one last look at him, the black sledge of stone dry as far as she could tell and she almost smiles to herself. Twisting her attention to a more preferable window. Privy in deep thought, a mist that conjoined her in two jolts of fixation and she leans her head against the glass.

His sweet glimmered hues, hard as diamond and steady as stone, shifting in tide as his mood swung one way or the other. His tone, sinewy and burnished like ambered copper, deep and absolute in what he had to say, what he had to offer. Pride practically oozed off him, seeped into any empty corner it could find. But there was that subtle hint of fear, fear of the unknown. Fear that kept him in control. Very few could see that terror that kept him still when needed.

It was what made him human. But if anything made him human, it was the care he held for the ones close to him, he did an amazing job on hiding it. Because alone protected him, but secretly she knew he enjoyed her company, enjoyed Ms. Hudson's and Lestrade's like a golden swept honey that was a fixture just for him.

The laugh that he would imitate, that real, _real_ , laugh he'd shower her with when she had said something obtuse or had given him a much needed reaction to his expected but brilliant deductions, or when Greg would give him a case. Let him take control of the situation with open arms because Lestrade trusted him.

That laugh when Ms. Hudson would deny them her servitude, even as she made them tea and lunch with a smile on her face. A tentative smile breaches her walls at the memory, realizing just how mundane life had been, ever with a man like Sherlock.

A light flutter cramped the small space in her chest, forcing what sorrow that had been left to leave. These memories, these events are what she would remember, what she would keep of him, not just him…not just him falling.

He was gone, and she'd have to accept that…

Wouldn't she?

It would take time, she knew that, but she would heal. She knew she would. She would keep him tucked away in her chest, in that sly pocket and hold onto whatever memory she had suppressed for the past five months under the influence of her ever growing desolate glum.

She didn't expect to get over what had happened so quickly, but with that thought, with the way she had just remembered him, the way he had shown his care, that smile that would unexpectedly crawl onto his lips, that burnished laugh that'd examine the room around him, she knew she was finally ready. It would hurt, it would pain her but she'd finally soar without wanting the waves to crash her down.

As much as she didn't want to move on it was the healthy, right thing to do. And she was sure Sherlock would want that for her too, right?

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Thank you for the comments, follows and favorites! It means so much and really helps urge me to continue writing! There were two comments left by Wink and a guest. I was unable to respond, I honestly have no clue as to why, but thank you so much for leaving one!


	7. A Job Offered

In this chapter you guys are going to meet Mary, or in this case Martin. I have already decided he'll look like Micheal Fassbender. So not much really goes on between the two in this chapter, but it won't really happen until the next chapter either. I plan on doing maybe three or four more chapters and then I'll move on to the next part of the series, which will indeed have Sherlock! How to coordinate between all of them will be explained last chapter. Thank you for all the follows, favorites and comments. They're really encouraging and they mean so much!

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock nor any of it's previously owned titles.

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A sigh slithers from June's lips, leaning into her seat with an exasperated hunch. Seven months and her emotions were still riding a roller coaster, friction of the past sliding her up several walls. Taking her glass like cup in hand she takes a sip of her coffee. She almost squints, the bitter taste drying her tongue. Either way she takes another.

She couldn't drink tea anymore, she didn't understand why, the aroma plunging her into a distaste. Four months ago she'd be all over it, but now it was just a substance she couldn't nor wanted to have. So here she was now, drinking coffee, the bean mixed water a substitute for her once beloved tea.

There's a knock on her door and she opens it before the person behind the sheet of wood can, greeting the young Braydon into her office along with his father. They do the regular check-up, and afterwards the little boy receives a treat. She goes back to her desk, the father, Michael standing next to her, as if waiting for something.

June, intrigued stares up at him. "I heard you're looking for some help…I mean, with the front desk and all." She shrugs, giving him a small smile. Where had he heard that? Yes, she was looking for some help, but not to the point that it was dire. But it would be appreciated.

"Yes, I am. Where'd you hear about that?" June swivels the chair to face him, crossing her legs.

"I have a friend who's looking for a job." He states calmly and she can't help but notice he'd avoided the question, not that it should bother her, but it does. "He's a nurse right now down at St. Barts. But it just isn't fitting him right now and he's looking for a part timer." June thinks it over. She did need an assistant, things could get overwhelming without one. Like last week. She did not want to revisit that again.

"Nurse?"

"Ah, yes, is that an issue…?" She shakes her head no.

"Of course not. And he's looking for a part time job…here?" Michael shrugs.

"Anywhere really, but I thought I'd help him out." He flashes her a smile, simple and average but charming in its own way. "His names Martin, good guy, has plenty of experience, he's been a nurse for quite some time, maybe seven, eight years?"

"I'll think about it." June stands, giving Braydon one more lollipop for his patience. He gives her a large smile, full of teeth and lip. "Just tell him to come over here on…Tuesday?" She scurries back over to her computer, looking at her set days and times, seeing if she had any explicable free time. And she does. "Yeah, Tuesday at four'o'clock." Michael nods with a gracious smile.

After saying their goodbyes he's out the door with little Braydon in hand. June leans back into her chair, watching as the door shuts and her chest clenches. The more children she saw the weaker she grew to the idea. She loved children. They were bright and full of life, so innocent and caring when it came right down to it.

They loved you unconditionally. That is of course until they hit their teenage years. Indefinitely so, they were a warmth that she encountered every day, something she wanted but knew she couldn't have. Something she shouldn't. She wasn't at all stable, the balance between sanity and it breaking; all of her thinning by the days that had gone by.

Though it had grown stronger, her sense of security and hope, she finally felt as if she could breathe. Those little gasps a victory for everyday life. Though she wasn't saying she was exactly better, there were still times where she thought being a loose end, a cut string would be a better solution than dealing with her day to day life.

It being dull, a blunt blade that rubbed her raw, sank in slowly in the hopes that the pinch would push her when that dreaded sorrow wouldn't. But she had remained strong. Or at least she had tried to do so.

She still stood, her heels digging to the ground with an impregnable, cogent pose. A stance secure and terribly tenacious. She refused to let herself go down, she needed to keep herself up, for the sake of herself, for the sake of her sanity.

As much as she'd like to meet Sherlock, where ever the hell he was, heaven or hell she couldn't. She huffs, because she feels that welling in her stomach, that specific tremble in her knees as she brings up a single thought, idea, theory.

When she was alone, when her thoughts surrounded her she finds that she leads herself to believe that he might still be alive. That this all some sick joke, one she could see Sherlock playing on her, not for a fit of laughs. Not like some twisted inhuman jest.

But as an experiment. But the more she repeated it daily in her judgement, engrossing her assessment of what she had really seen, the more asinine it became. The theory rapidly growing impractical, fatuous, absurd and nonsensical, a fairy tale that had rooted itself deep within herself.

One she'd have to tug, rip and scratch at for years just to get it out. Fictions such as that were unrealistic, even for Sherlock, even for her. She doesn't realize is, but she's scraping her pen into the top of her table to the point of an indent.

She yanks the ink filled capsule from her table top and sighs, leaning over and brushing her hand onto her cheek. The dent is black, full of an ink that will fade in an instance. It will start slow, but eventually it with capsize and diminish in volume. That deep sense of dark just fading away into a gray, and soon a white.

She realizes, sadly, that that was what she was. Right now, she was that grey, and soon she'd be a clean slate of white, waiting for the world to color her in again. That black, that deep dark midnight that sits in the back of her mind suddenly turns awry, frizzed and curled and she nearly slaps herself.

She had been doing so well on keeping him out of her mind, at least in a way that troubled her, and now it was back. That white would settle in soon and all that'd be left would be those rolling curls, that ivory set flesh and those eyes; set ablaze with the fire and ice of a temerarious constellation.

And he didn't even know it, because he hadn't the slightest clue that the earth revolved around the sun, a gigantic star that kept this world and the next all together, because that's what made him…him. Making this incredible man brilliant all at the same time an idiot, both never outweighing the other, a constant variable kept on repeat.

One that kept her hinged and together, something that she had forgotten how to do. June exhales deeply, and all that came from the excess hope is that someday, she might actually see him again, whether it be after her life is over and done with or now, in some crazy, assorted way.

Bringing the pen up, she examines it and finds that it's almost empty of its ink. She'd need a new one soon.

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"No, you can't just…well, you can't just come into work whenever you feel like it." June was irritated, Six people had come for her now well known opening as a nurse to work for her part time and now she's dealing with a forty six year old man who doesn't understand the meaning of job, for it clearly states that you have to work. "It has to be on the times assigned to you." She's steaming on the inside but managed to keep a regal composure.

"Well, what if I just don't show up one day?" June nearly rolls her eyes. No wonder that guy didn't have a job. He was a walking disaster. And she wasn't quiet sure, but by the dark supply of darkening circles under his eyes she could tell he wasn't exactly in a healthy state. His hair was ratted, greasy and nowhere near clean.

He was lean, bones protruding outwards, pushing his skin with it. And his teeth were yellow. Now, if he had been serious about taking this job instead of asking questions, like per-say, how many times a week can he miss work without getting fired she would have looked into it. He was smart, she knew that much and had answered almost all of her questions except for one correctly. He had the schooling necessary for the job, but he just wasn't taking this as seriously as he should. And she couldn't have that.

"Well, I'd have to call you."

"Why, what if I'm sick."

Tapping her foot she leans back into the head of her seat, staring at him dumbfounded. "If you get sick you need to let me know." She states a matter of fact, setting the papers she once had in hand down.

"Why would I want to let you know, that's none of your business." She swears she's glaring now, the feeling of creasing brows notable and the pure entanglement of chagrin swims within her iris.

"Thank you for your time, I'll let you know on Thursday whether or not you got the job." He gives her a nod, standing with a bounce and leaves the room quickly. June crosses her arms atop the table and slams her head between the two, completely halting her forehead from ever touching the flat of the table.

A long, irritated groan escapes her lips and she has to actively refrain herself from screaming at the top of her lungs. Let the pitch ring someone's ears off because she's positive hers have had enough listening to the ludicrous comments some have come in with.

A knock persists at the door, the clunking of knuckle and wood grained with a touch of concentration. "Come in." She lifts her head from the table and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. A man, she recognizes, enters. He smiles over at her confidently and sits himself down.

He hands her the papers she needed before she had even asked and she finds she already likes this one. Thumbing through the application she pauses, her eyes landing on his name and she has to adjust her focus just to make sure she got it right.

Martin Morstan. He hadn't come last Tuesday so she'd assumed he had decided not to come in for the job or something had come up. She takes a quick glance at him before reading through his application. Graduated from college with his master's degree from Columbia University, which meant he had gone to America for his schooling. That was something new she had yet to see and found to be impressive.

She brings her eyes up to observe him, he had a strong cut jaw line, darkened ash locks and deep navy pools that made a statement all on their own. His shoulders were broad, his hands large and had a stern expression about him.

She didn't eye him long enough to make any more obtuse observations and try to be like Sherlock, because lets face it, she was nothing like him. He always claimed he just noticed, that he looked for it and found it. But no matter how hard she tried she always failed. That had been proven on many accounts throughout the time she'd spent with the consulting detective. So many times he'd laughed at every attempt.

With a grain of salt June would roll him off with the bat of her eyes and shoo away the embarrassment that came with the failure. She keeps her attention tracked on the application and moves through his background.

Plenty more was listed, such as working at three separate hospitals. All he had left due to choice, which was certainly an entertained ideal. Better to have quit a job than to have been fired. He has the perfect record as well.

She brings her eyes up to meet his, an assuming merit cheerfully claiming her as its own. "Martin, why do you want to work here?" June finally questions, realizing that she'd have to actually ask a query if she wanted this to be a resolute affair.

"My mother's sick and a patient here." June quirks a brow. That was a valid reason if she'd ever heard one. She rummages through the ward she held within her head and tries to locate his mother, she had heard of the name and wondered if she had ever treated the woman.

"If you don't mind my asking, what exactly does she have?"

"Cancer—Lung Cancer." June clamps her mouth shut. Every time she tries to ask someone something that starts out innocent it turns into a verbal bloodbath. She almost flinches at his words and bites her lip consequentially.

Lying the papers down on her desk and sends him a dejected frown. "I'm so sorry." Martin responds with a caviler shrug, the appearance of his acceptance within this problem had already sunk in and he seems to have grown numb to the issue at hand.

And she can relate. Not fully, but she's half way there to where he stands, though she wasn't quite sure if she'd ever be completely insensible to what had happened.

"Its fine, she's getting better. Well that's what the rest say." Immediately she recognizes who this woman must be. Dr. Monroe had a patient in room 256, floor five. She'd seen a woman in there, hooked up to a machine with tubes wiring her body. All her hair had left due to radiation treatment.

Isabel Morstan if she remembered correctly, that was her name. She was already at stage four. The hopes of that woman surviving were dim and it was obvious he knew that as well.

She remembers the eye contact she had undoubtedly made with the aging female, her eyes glazed in paralyzing dismal. It had thrown her off guard. As many times as she's seen those self-explanatory silent screams of help it never got any easier. The twanged ping of pain, of sympathy for those in need, no matter how many times she'd seen a human life stumped it still brought a sting and an ache, an overturned feeling she had no control over...

June takes one more look at the application, reasoning with tight conservative as she rows the papers in two.

"You've got the job." He gawks at her, shocked and overwhelmed in befuddlement. "You can start tomorrow, I want you here by seven." It seems he's still processing her words. By the time her response grates him to a fine point he smiles graciously and takes her hand, shaking it.

"Thank you so much."

"Of course."


	8. Involved

This is the second to the last chapter of the story and I have to thank all of you for your favorites, follows and comments. They mean so much to me. The next chapter will have the links to the rest of the series, or what I have written. It will be updated as time goes by and more is posted. And with the rest of the series, I will be posting that soon as well and the first chapters of those will have links as well.

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock nor any of its previously owned titles.

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June takes a seat at her desk, filing through some papers she had just received from her current assistant, Martin. He was a nice fellow, caring and funny as well. She didn't know too much about him, but she had learned that his mother had just recently died. She tried to give him the month off, telling him she could handle the work on her own.

He had told her no to her surprise. Explaining that this was the best way to help with the loss, she had let him resume to his work and hadn't pushed more than need be. However she did send him home early, whether he wanted to or not.

And today was no exception, it already being eight 'o'clock she was getting ready to tell him to pack up and go home. So she leaves her office to find him at his desk once she's done with all her papers, shuffling her hands into the pits of her pockets she leans into the bar that protruded from where he sat.

She waits as he finishes up whatever he's typing and with a sigh he turns to her. "I really don't need to go home." He voices before she could give him the 'bad' news. "I'm fine, really." June shakes her head.

"Nope. Get a move on." She contemplates his actions before they become a reality and pulls out the chord to his computer, knowing full well he'd already saved everything on his drive. He stands with an aggravated heave, taking his flash drive out of the computer and shoving it in his pocket.

He picks up his coat of his chair, striding his arms through the sleeves and manages to button up in time record. Wrapping his large red scarf around his neck he turns to look at June, a frown on his lips, and before he even leaves his spot he decides a protest is direly needed. Like he does every other night.

"Doctor, really, it doesn't bother me." He leans to his side, his leg keeping contact with his desk to keep steady. "I can stay late, you've got a lot of work and I'd hate for you to do it all by yourself." She thinks it over, knowingly sighing she glances over her shoulder and mentally shoos away the other set of papers on her desk.

When she returns her eyes to his she can see a desperation that can only be matched with hers when she had lost…when she had lost _him_ a year ago. She herself had been constantly looking for work, vigilance for openings that'd seemed too far away.

Just to keep her mind from falling into and endless loop of despair and loneliness. Work kept her out of that pit of insanity where you drown yourself with false hope. A dark, deep place where you could never return from. She'd almost fallen into that pit, almost; but she hadn't because she kept herself busy, for the most part that is.

A lot of the times she was certain she had fallen into that pit and there was no way out.

Biting her cheek she nods, caving into his words and that awful stare in the hopes she'd say yes. "Fine, but I don't want to see you pushing yourself." He nods with a large smile, eyes big in comparison and gives her his thanks.

This is the first time she actually finds his smile…comforting, something she didn't know she'd find any solace in at all. And soon, before she knows it, it will become a source of all her comfort in this horrid world.

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"You see, I've got this rash ridin' up my back." Charles, one of her patients, points out to June as he lifts up his shirt. June, holding back a grimace nods, leaning back to get a better look at the reddening state of his spine. "And it itches." He complains.

"Could you keep that shirt up for me, please?" June questions as she slides on some of her sanitary gloves, the latex gripping onto her skin like a tease. Moving over to his back he obliges and holds the shirt over his head but never truly takes it off. June pokes at the rash before stretching it.

He doesn't hiss or make in annotation that it hurt so the best guess was this wasn't an allergic reaction, even if that were possible it seemed he'd gotten this a while ago too. The rash wasn't even that bad, it only trailed about three inches up his back. But she could see the worry in the situation.

Something catches her eye and pulling her attention to that she sighs, feeling her own stupidity slap in her on the head. "Charles, this is a bite from a mosquito." She's more mad at herself for even skipping over such a simple solution than him coming in for something so stupid.

"But it burns sometimes and I have to constantly itch it." He complains and June feels as if she's on the verge of forcing him to leave.

"Yes, that is what happens when a mosquito bites you." June stands, and after a few more minutes of questions and rashes the man leaves. June settles into her seat and begins to tap her pen on her lip, looking through her schedule with consternation.

She was packed, and it was nearly the end of the day, she'd rather go home and wash up, maybe take a nap? But it appeared she wouldn't be able to do so without a single thought leading to work. So she begins, assigning surgeries and looking over wounds that had been registered.

Who currently needs to be tested and who doesn't. It takes time and she doesn't realize all the time that goes by, it flying past her with solemn grace. Not leaving a track in sight. It isn't until she gets a knock on her door that she's led away from this dull state of hers.

She looks up with befuddlement, nevertheless she allows whoever hides behind her door entrance with a soft 'come in.' She's greeted with Martin, his arms folded over his chest and a frown on his lips.

"Doctor, it's been three hours." He claims and she understands that look he's giving her. She's seen it on many before, but never on him. He's scolding her. "You should have gone home by now, you need some rest." Taking her coat off of her cornered coat rack he marches over, holding it out to her expectedly.

She takes it warily, and with an absent stare she stands. "Aren't you one to talk?" she drapes the warming cloth around her, a playful smirk playing at the hem of her lips. He smiles at this, moving out of her way so she could exit her current stance.

And before she can make it to the door he opens it for her, gliding a hand out as if to push her. She gawks at him, that playful smirk turning soft. "Thank you." Her comment is barely audible, but it's loud enough for him to hear.

"Sure thing." Martin gives her another flashy smile and heads back to his desk, June almost stopping, because for one thing; Telling her to go home and get rest and not do the same thing was too much work on one's self, and two, he technically tricked her.

She crosses her arms against her chest, a forging frown running a muck on her lips. "You need to go home as well, Martin." He brings his attention to her, light shining in his navy blue hues, and he smiles with a joyous she'd never seen on him before.

"Is that an order?"

"Yes, a doctors order." She complies smoothly. With a soft chuckle he nods in defeat, knowing he wouldn't win this one like the last. Taking his jacket he slides it on, a process he'd easily learned and wraps his scarf loosely around his neck.

He shuts his computer off, and with one last huff, grabs his car keys from the neighboring drawer. Shuffling his chair into the desk he leaves and follows after June, keeping pace with her surprisingly fast walk.

He watches her zoom out of the halls, as if she were relieved the day were over, and he didn't blame her. But it was an entertaining thing to watch, certainly.

"You know Doctor, for such a short woman you can pick up some speed, can't you?"

She looks at him, eyebrow lifted and scoffs. And for a moment he believes he's gone too far, and is ready to choke down it words and apologize.

"June." He looks at her, confused.

"What?"

"Doctor is too formal, you can call me June." She nearly gasps at the gelid frost that hits her, wrapping her arms around each other in search for some sort of heat. He gleams at her words, trying to hide the obvious joy that had crept along, but obviously didn't do too well. Because now he was smiling like an idiot and she had none to no clue as to why he'd be so happy over something so small?

"June." He tests, like one does when the dip their toe into the unknown depths of rising water. She nods at him, and they come to a complete halt near the busy street, cars zooming passed as the two look at each other.

She can't help but look at the prominent chin he holds, the strong willful eyes that somehow compared to the ocean, and that perfect jaw line. She could cut cheese with that thing. She wants to move, truly, but can't urge any more movement out of herself. It was like her feet were planted into the cement and if she had moved it would be painful, like standing on nails.

So she leans back, as little as possible as to not make it any weirder than it already was. Martin, seemingly lost as well take swallows thickly before breaking the silence.

"Would you like a ride home? Getting a cabbie out this late can be quiet the bother." Without thinking she nods.

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June wanders the small store, watching as many walk passed her. She can't seem to find the produce isle and it's driving her mad. It should've been the easiest thing to fine, but this new store was hardly helpful. You'd think by now they'd have signs, entry ways, but they don't. It shouldn't even be open. Yet they are, and what really irks her is that so many claimed how great this shop was.

So she hikes up the basket laced to her arm and begins to aimlessly wander in the hopes she might find what she's looking for. You would think that something as large as a produce isle would be easy to find, for it was the largest area of the store, yet she had trouble finding it.

Irate climbed her as she traveled isle after isle until she just stopped and had to check her surroundings.

Candy isle. Great.

She turns to see the sweets lining up the shelves, soda pop on the other side facing the sugar filled sweets. Welcome to diabetic city, where all your weight and dreams of life go under the bus. Not that she had anything wrong with diabetics, they were some pretty strong people, but damn…this was just sickening, to be honest.

"June?" She turns to the sound of her voice, finding Martin standing with a cart in both hands, a welcoming beam dancing on his lips.

She forces a smile on, hoping it didn't look too strained. Though it wasn't long before it grew natural, something she hadn't felt in for ages.

"Martin." She continues, shifting uncomfortably as he gazed at her. It wasn't that she was uncomfortable with him in general, but he had caught her in a pretty messy situation. Being that she hadn't bothered to put on make-up or properly do her hair and still wore pajama's was all entirely…uncomforting for her at this moment. "What a surprise to see you here." She adds swiftly as if to catch her own falling words.

He walks over, stopping mid-way to grab something and drop it in his cart. It isn't long before they being chatting, speaking about the long filled days of work, how they were doing and if everything was alright. But it all comes to an abrupt stop when he shy's away from her stare and has to take a deep breath.

"June…Yes, uhm…June?"

"Yeah?" June can feeling an uprising of query bark at the back of ears.

"I was wondering…Would you like to get a drink with me sometime?" She holds her breath, not actually expecting such a question from…well him and has to replay his question in her head a few times over.

She didn't know what to say. Did she like him? Yes, she did…but she didn't know if she was exactly ready to just—move on, persay. Not like this, not only after a year…But maybe it was time? Certainly a year was long enough, and if she felt as if she were ready to take on a simple date, why not go on it.

She liked Martin, he was nice and charming and his looks didn't do him any bad. So why not? What harm could come from a simple drink? Guilt instantly claims her, as if she's thinking the unthinkable, like she's betraying him.

Like she's leaving him for someone else.

But he left her. He had left her all alone, left her to grieve and confide in her already drowning expiry. Left her to grow grey and let all her color leave her absent, devoid of all emotion, absent of all feeling, desperate to feel anything at all.

He had destroyed her.

She deserved this little bit of happiness. She was the only one who could pick up her pieces and she'd do it without feeling that parchment of guilt that seemed to wash over her so easily.

"Sure, why not?" Martins smile seems to double in size, relief down playing him greatly.

"Great…is Saturday good?" She nods.

She holds out her hand and almost instantly he knows what she's asking for. He pulls out his phone and she dials her number in.

"I'll text you my address later, if that's alright?"

"Of course, yeah." She pulls out her mobile and enters his number in as well, and in a moments notice his phone is back in his hands.

"See you Saturday." June beams up, eyes shining and she turns to leave. She needed to find that damned produce isle. She'd ask him, but that was just too embarrassing.

"Actually, June?" She brings herself around, eyeing him. "Do you know where the produce isle is, I can't seem to find it."

 _Oh_ , she'd get along with him fine, really fine.


	9. A Warning

This is the last chapter. I know it doesn't exactly satisfy but to be blatant, it isn't supposed to (That wasn't meant to come out as demeaning what so ever), but I will be adding my new addition to the series sometime this week. It will be called C'est La Mort. It will pretty much be my own cover of The Empty Hearse, and I will do my best to set it apart from the original episode but still give it the same feeling as the episode did. I won't be changing everything either. Thank you so much for reading, following and leaving a favorite or review. They all mean so much to me and helped me continue on writing.

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It truly was like any other day, except today instead of coffee she had tried to drink a cup of tea. Though it didn't exactly sit with her, much to her disdain, and she ended up dumping the tea down the drain of her sink. She fiddles with the hems of her sleeves and goes to her couch. She was expecting two people today.

One being Martin, he was taking her out tonight. Nine months of being together, nine months of healing and helping. She never thought she'd be able to feel right about this, about them, not with a dead man watching. But he made her…happy. Comfortable, joyous to the life around her.

He had fixed her. Helped pick up the pieces no one else could seem to find. He was there when she needed to cry, soothing her hair and rubbing her back all the while whispering comfort between her ears.

He was there to make her feel right, keep her in place and help her stay up. It was like he as her prince in shining armor. As much as she hated the trope, for she was far from a damsel in distress, it fit all too well to ignore.

He had saved her when she couldn't even save herself. He had come into her life with a smile and hopeful care, tender to the touch. Careful about what he spoke of, how he asked her of things, and she found later on in their relationship, after pointing out the endless perfections about the man that had chosen her rose up.

He had a wonderful smile, one that lit up her world, one that reminded her of a brighter tomorrow. And the way he stood, the way he smelt of pine and what she thought might by gun powder, but she never got a distinct smell out of it and let the pine rule over it. It was the smallest things that got her to turn.

The way he rolled up his sleeves when stressed, or how he would subconsciously touch her when she was near. Delicately sliding his shoulder passed her, or their hands somehow come into contact when exchanging reports.

And the way he'd say I love you. It was generous, emotional, caring in every single possible way. Devotion was in his DNA and she couldn't help but bathe in it. It was like a shower, basking on her hours upon hours a day. And it never stopped, never came to a screeching halt like it should have.

Like she had expected it to. She'd never expected, considered the possibility of someone being able to stand where _he_ stood. Of course…he didn't take his spot, exactly. More as in Martin stood to her right while _his_ shadow took up her left.

In fact, she was so certain she might never find a friend, or even a lover she had separated herself from life, from her friends and family. Not that she and her family were close by any means, but she had ignored calls from her sister or mother. Deciding that it wasn't worth the time when all it did was cause drama.

But she should have, regardless. They were her family and it was her duty to at least try as it seemed they were now as well. And then came in her 'friends'. Like Molly, Lestrade, Ms. Hudson…didn't answer one call of theirs. Though she had seen Molly the other day while she and Martin were out, and though Molly hadn't seen her she had seen Molly.

She was with a man, though she couldn't exactly figure him out, he was behind an isle and all she could see was some light curls and a bundled scarf. For a moment she had thought it was Sherlock, out of desperation she had twisted her thoughts into a formality deemed inappropriate at this point.

He was gone and she had excepted that…no…that was a large word to take up. She was dealing with it, that label seemed to fit much better already. She was dealing with the fact that he was gone, dealing that he would never come back and she had to get over it.

But no matter how much time had passed it seemed to never pass, much to her digression. Especially to Martin's Disdain. But he was supportive, he cared for her, he was here for her and that's all she wanted. That's all she needed.

And after being with him for so long, she believed that with him taking her to a nice and fancy restaurant, keeping her relatively close and always talking about her opinions on marriage…well she had every reason to believe he would be asking her to marry him tonight.

And she had no excuse to say no, she didn't want to say no, she'd be drowned in ebullience, thrilled to spend the rest of her life with him. To set up a little domestic family and live a long and happy life, with him. With Martin.

What she didn't like was that she had been constantly trying to convince herself of this. She was certain she wanted this, but in the back of her mind, considerably relatable to picking an old wound, she wasn't sure.

Moving on from the depressing topic she realizes Lestrade would be here any minute. He wanted to give her something, she didn't know what it was, but he had said it was important. It had been nearly a year since she'd actually seen him.

Of course she'd seen him on the T.V and newspapers but that was about it. As if on queue a knock was brought to her door. June leaves her kitchen and grates to the door, opening it to find the man she'd been waiting for the last twenty minutes.

There stood Lestarde. He looked the same, grey hair, dark eyes full exhaustion and a smile on his lips. Though it was a bit awkward, that smile, almost seemed forced but at the same time natural.

He's holding a small white shoe box, and slowly he hands it over to her. Taking it in hand she steps to the side, letting him in. Following after him shortly she shuts the door, placing the small box on her counter.

"It's nice to see you again, Greg." She puts on a warming smile, but to him it feels weak. Almost out of life, forced upon recognition that there _was_ someone besides herself seeing her today, but he doesn't say anything.

"And you." Greg nearly pushed out, and feels an overflowing amount of discomfort in how subtle everything was in her flat. Nothing out place, neat and tidy, and he has to remember it wasn't June who made 221b the mess it had been. But it was in fact Sherlock, with all his experiments and disorganized way of life.

June rubs her hands on her the backs of her jeans before speaking up once more, just to break the seemingly never ending silence. "Take a seat." June offers, sitting down herself. With a hefty groan he does, settling into one of her chairs. It's comfy, soft and nothing like the one back at Baker street.

"So, how've you been?" June feels a pause jarring her throat, swallowing it down swiftly she gives him a fake smile. She didn't understand why it had been so hard for her to answer that, why it hurt her, but it had. But right now she'd rather not dwell on it.

"Uh…yeah, good…" She crosses her legs, leaning her back up against the couch comfortably. "Much better…" She wanted to change the subject, and in doing so she points out the shoe box. "So, what's in the box?"

"Oh, that's some stuff from my office, Sherlock's actually." He coughs a bit, June staring at him blankly before looking back at the box. "Probably should've thrown it out but I didn't know if you, uh…"

"Right." June includes quickly, leaning over as her legs flew unhatched, folding her arms. Lestrade stands.

"Yeah. There's something here…" He goes to the box, uncapping it of its lid. "I wasn't sure if I should've kept it." He reaches in and June can't stop the churning in her gut. "Remember the video message we made for your birthday?" He turns holding a disk in hand. "This is the, uh, uncut version. Bit funny actually. Thought…thought maybe you'd like to see it."

"Right." She takes it, almost glaring at the object as if it were Sherlock himself. Lestrade feels an embodiment of worry crawl over him, regret spiking.

"I probably shouldn't have brought that, I'm sorry." She glances up at the man, shaking her head.

"No its fine."

"You going to watch it?" She shrugs.

"Maybe…"

[][][][]

It isn't any day you find a dress, such as this, for a low price as it had been handled. The deep crimson flattered the silk eloquently, a drift along the shoulder played about with a soft graze of lace in the back, showing skin. Maybe more than she was comfortable with, being her scar had all but taken place on her shoulder. But the thing that troubled her most was that she'd likely get cold, considering the gusts that played about outside the store. But it was utterly breath taking, the rouge comparable to a mid-summer evening, yet was somehow compatible with a blushing rose. Taking it by the hanger she pits at the front desk lays it out for the cashier to see.

"Good choice." She comments briefly, checking it out with a glimmer in her eye.

June nods in agreement. It was a good choice, not only was it fifty percent off, it fit her perfectly, shaping her hips the way she had hoped and kept her chest a reasonable size. Pouching what was left of her cleavage out. It really had been luck, she wasn't one to believe in something such as that, but there was no denying it. She had found earlier that she had nothing to wear for tonight and had ran out to find something...better than what she had.

"Would you like a paper bag or plastic?"

"Paper, please." June adds swiftly. The young woman folds the dress carefully and gently slides it into the paper sack, tying two white ribbons at the top, she hands it over to June.

"ninety quid." Pulling out her wallet she hands it over the money, snatching the dresses container with patience. "Thank you for shopping." June sighs, but nonetheless gives her a smile with a nod. June's quick to leave, exiting the store just as fast as she had entered it with a heave. The clothes there were nice but for some reason the place smelt rancid.

Looking down at her watch it came to her that she only had about thirty minutes to get ready. Now she wasn't one to take a long time, but tonight was special and she still needed to take a shower. In a hurry she waves her arm out, an attempt to call a cabby but none come to a stop for her. She becomes increasingly irritated by the time the clock hits five minutes, considering her time limit. Of course she could begin walking, but that was a twenty minute walk. But looking down at her situation it comes to light that the walk might be better.

And she wonders how in the hell Sherlock had gotten a cabby just by holding his arm up for a second. At the time it had impressed her, made him seem important somehow. And he was. But looking back on it now and she's more confused and agitated than impressed. Because when she needs the damn car the most they all skip out on her.

She just needed to get back to her flat, and fast, otherwise she'd be scratching at her hair the entire time wondering whether if it looked nice or not. Like she said, not one to dawn on stupid things as this, but it really coiled her up like a spring, the situation. All she wanted was to look a tad bit better than earlier. And a shower would help with that. But with the length of her hair, that shower would take longer than five minutes.

Dammit.

She gives up after twelve minutes, being as impatient as she is and begins to walk down the sidewalk towards her flat. Her slow paced stalking rises to a spirited speed walk. She'd jog, but lately her leg had been getting worse. In fact, the other day she could hardly walk without a limp. Of course it went away after a bit, repeatedly reminding herself that she had to be careful and with that sat around most of the day.

She makes a turn when a black vehicle catches her eye and she comes to a stop. Teetering to the side she finds the slick black car pulled up to the side of her, and almost simultaneously she knows who it is as the window rolls down. Anthea is there to answer her face of annoyance, and for a second she looks up from her phone. "Get in." It's all she says, with a dull nonchalant tone.

She must have been having a bad day given her flat voice and the lack of care in her eyes. On a regular basis she's usually...excited, thrilled to get June into the car. She guessed those weren't the best words to use. She was, in a sense, more enthusiastic about it. Knowing she'd never win the debate, the one she had started in her head, she nods slowly and paces to the car.

Anthea slides to the right as June enters and she pauses half way in. Mycroft? eight months of silence and now he want's to speak again? she wasn't exactly irritated as she was befuddled at the abrupt showing. They hadn't exactly ever really spoken, it's not like they met in the afternoon for tea. But there were times where he'd offer her a job. The last time had been eight months ago. Of course she had denied, as always, and he had accepted her faulty answer every time. though, there were the awkward meetings he'd entice, they'd be the same, but there were those rare moments when he'd ask how she was doing.

If she were feeling better, had enough money, and if she felt safe, of all things. They were never framed with the right words either, always negative, making himself sound the bad guy. But she understood what he meant after a while. It was hard to except the fact that this cold, hard man actually might 'care' for her. She uses the word lightly, obviously, but it was completely out of character for London's _Queen_.

In fact, she still hasn't fully wrapped her head around the warped conversations between the two of them. She had grown to ignore them, increasingly so, and after a while he just stopped. Like a switch turned off, any or all surveillance was turned away from her. She hadn't put in any effort in her care for the sudden change, but she put plenty in her query into it all.

He snaps his pad shut once she fully envelopes herself inside the car, glancing her up and down with a scrutinizing brow, measuring her as he has always done. She waits for him to say something, and he does, but not to her. He tells the driver to take them to her flat and they pull away from the curve. She does in fact want to ask why'd he picked her up. But at the moment she's all too focused on her plans tonight.

She only had twenty minutes to get ready now, a pain if you asked her, but she'd take the time where she could get it. The silence doesn't last long when he finally speaks. Voice caustic, rigid and almost cold.

"Planning something?" She brings her eyes up to the insouciant tones. Why play stupid? He should have everything down at this point. Where she was going, why, when, etc...

She figures she might as well entertain the man. "A date." She pips, settling the paper bag on the cars floor next to her feet. Mycroft gives her false smile, the curls of his lips dipping into his cheeks unnaturally.

"He's going to propose." He says a matter of fact, his tone near ice and she doesn't know if she likes where this is heading, but does her best in attempt to brace herself.

"I think so." She answers quietly, folding her arms. She squares her shoulders, his eyes narrowing, and she doesn't understand the look. Doesn't know how to react, how to respond, so she sits there in the defensive. How'd she know she was in the defensive? By the way he was looking at her. The features of his face inflexible. He doesn't look all that too happy, but when ever is the the British Government happy? It would be fascinating news if it were to ever truly happen.

He pulls the steno pad back up and the overwhelming silence welcomes itself back in between the rest of them. In all honesty she preferred the quiet tendency of the car currently, less threatening if she were to be truthful. June invites herself to look out the window, gawking at the blurring shades of yellows, blues and reds. Just a big mush of life and hovering death ready to pounce.

It's when she hears something skitter across from her she brings herself back to the attention of whats going on inside the car. Mycroft is looking at the dress, a sour look of incredulity compensates his features before he folds it back up again and places it back in the bag. She can't help but query his expression with a dallier agitation.

She can already tell there's something wrong and she has to answer it with one of her many questions. "Whats wrong with the dress?" She folds her arms back onto her lap and he looks up at her, Anthea somehow elevated her head from her phone, watching with interest.

"It is going to waste, is it not?" She tilts her head at the question. What did he mean by that? The dress was nice, she knew that much, but she got a grave sense that he wasn't speaking about the dress. By the way he held himself, store at her, it gave off a demeaning style of a somewhat accusatory hatred pointed towards her. But at the same time, not directed at her personally, but towards something else.

She reaches over and takes the sack back, shuffling it next to her in the empty slot, next to Anthea. She just waits, she had gotten over trying to guess or figure out what a Holmes meant when they'd speak in riddles.

"I suppose you wouldn't consider leaving this Martin, would you?" Her eyes widen, a compact intervole of light ire wraps around her spine and holds her shoulders host within a straining adamantine. "The affairs of your personal life are matters that I would rather keep my distance with, the considerable amount of the men you go through is astonishing." She wants to stop him there, fury entangles her heart, but she strains her jaw and holds the splinter in her spin. "But I'd keep in tonight if you are prepared to spend your life with the man."

At this point she's ready to ask the driver to pull over and let her out. "Listen, I don't know why you're telling me this, but it needs to stop." She warns after a string of a beat.

"Your relations, whether romantic or platonic, have been less than stellar." She bites her cheek, thumbing her sleeves. "Knowing that tonight may be a shift for the worse, I suggest the two of you stay in the flat." She curls her brows in, a hard lump makes an unpleasant occurrence within her stomach. Did he know something she didn't? It was there, right in front of her, she could see it in his eyes, but couldn't get anything out of them.

"I'm quiet sure we'll be fine." June clips, hardening her hues in chagrin.

"You mistake me." His regal composure shifts easily. "I do not care for your affairs, as I have just previously stated, I am simply warning you of what might become of tonight-"

"Isn't that caring, warning me of what? A surprise." she adds before she can stop and he seems unsettled by this. He straightens his shoulders, cursing his umbrella between his legs with a stiff alignment. The car comes to a stop and she's at her flat. She looks out and sighs, thinking she had, for once, won against a Holmes brother. His silence a virtuous winner. She about opens the car door, which is locked before she can leave. She stares over at Mycroft, who's eyes are livid in a dark winsome shade even as the rest of him remains unfazed, placid and still.

"Trust issues are pesky little things aren't they, taking everyone down with them, including the source?" Where was he planning on going with this? Had he been reading her private therapy sessions again? The man had no boundaries, at times he'd be worse than Sherlock, and currently still is. "This time Doctor Watson, I'd let those issue resonate with your partner." his tone is warning, dangerous and sharp. Cut to a thin strip of ice, gelid and ready to freeze the world over.

She grits her teeth, the door unlocking with a snap. A force that she had been waiting for. She hops out, before shutting it his umbrella sticks out, keeping her at a halt. June has to close her eyes to put a handle on her temper.

"Morstan is not your only problem tonight, be wary Ms. Watson." His warning abides, taking her by the arm and twists it with a stinging grip. She slams the door shut and allows the man to drive off, her eyes leaving his immediately. She shrugs the words off, or tries to, does her best to in the least. She didn't like what he had said, but she wasn't childish enough to ignore them completely.

Those all sounded like warnings, ringing bells of concern. Mycroft wasn't one to hand that out freely, she'd only ever seen him warn Sherlock of something, anything. Depending on the stature of a problem or case. But warning her? It was unheard of.

Why warn her of Martin? He was a good man but Mycroft had made him out to less than that. Someone she should steal her trust from. She doesn't know whether to listen or not, her head telling her that she should put his words to good use but her gut was yelling to ignore it. She'd take more time to dwell on these questions, she really would, but she'd do that later.

If an east wind were blowing her way, she'd bare the strong winds as she always has.

[][]

Thank you guys so much for reading! It means a lot and I'm glad that you all enjoyed. Watch out for the third installment of the series! The title is named at the beginning notes! Thank you again!


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